The Princess's Guard ✔️

5

Word Count: 1614

~Kiva

Bracing my hands on my knees, I stare at the floor, trying not to throw up.

"I've had enough," I gasp out.

I can feel sweat trailing down my forehead as I look up at Ark, who stares down at me with his arms folded over his chest.

That menancing look...It makes training under his scrutiny far more difficult, knowing he's judging my every move. 

"You've barely done anything."

I collapse onto my stomach, pressing my cheek against the cold floor.

I believe more than ever that he's a killer. As I lay here, I'm barely clinging onto life, utterly ruined by him and his thorough training.

If it could even be called that. 

"I've ran laps, I've lifted far too many weights, and I put up with you for over an hour. I'm done," I grumble.

I tried to push back against his instructions to begin with, but he made it very clear that he wasn't going to allow that. I regret it now, getting the feeling most of this training is his retaliation to my attitude.

"That was merely a warm up. Now, to the training."

With widened eyes, I looking up at him. "I won't be able to walk tomorrow!"

As he turns away, I swear I see the beginnings of a smile. "I'm counting on it."

Rolling my eyes, I push myself up into sitting position, hugging my knees. My arms are so weak I'm unsure I'll ever be able to pick something up again.

"And how will I protect myself then?" I ask hopelessly.

He circles back around, holding his hand out to me. "You'll have me."

"I don't want you."

Scrambling to my feet, I stumble a bit, dodging away from Ark's gasp as he reaches out to steady me.

He sighs through his nose. "The faster you are at learning how to protect yourself, the sooner I'm out of your life."

"And suddenly I have all the energy in the world," I exclaim, grinning sardonically at him.

He shakes his head, turning to open one of the weapon's cases attached to the wall. I like that he hates me, that even looking at me is hard for him. It makes getting under his skin so much easier.

"Take this." He holds something out to me.

"What is it?"

He twists it around so I can see the blade. "What does it look like?"

I swallow, unnerved. "A knife."

"Dagger," he corrects.

I'm not exactly well-versed in weaponry, considering my father gets anxious when I pick up a serrated kitchen knife.

Ark, on the other hand, handles the dagger adeptly, twisting it around in his hand, admiring the sharp blade.

I hold out my palm, feeling the weight of it as he rests it there. "Whatever. Can I stab you with it?"

"Go ahead." He spreads his arms wide, inviting my attack.

Maybe he thinks I won't do it, that I'm not fantasying about how I could kill him.

So, without hesitating, I charge at him, dagger braced in front of me. I don't even know if I'm capable of murder, and yet something about the smug expression on Ark's face makes it seem so easy.