The Eccentric Entomologist is Now a Queen's Consort-Chapter 494: Lone Wolf and Swordsmanship (4)

"Almost," she murmured, the word barely a breath between them.

Then she leaned in, knuckles grazing the curve of his jaw, and her lips found his—not with the playful teasing of earlier, but with a slow, unhurried intent. Her mouth pressed softly at first, exploring, tasting, but the gentle brush quickly deepened. Her lips parted, and her tongue slipped forward, meeting his in a slow, languid dance that sent a warm shiver through him.

Mikhailis's hands instinctively found her waist, pulling her closer, but Cerys was already pressing against him, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck, threading through his thick, unruly hair. Her tongue explored with a teasing flick, brushing against his, then retreating, only to coax him further. A soft, breathy sigh escaped her, swallowed by his mouth, and she shifted closer, her body pressing firmly against his chest.

Her kiss grew bolder, deeper—their tongues meeting in a slow, deliberate caress that sent heat spiraling down his spine. Mikhailis responded in kind, his hand sliding from her waist to the curve of her back, feeling the hard muscle beneath the supple leather. He pressed, drawing her flush against him, their shared warmth mingling beneath the sunlight that painted them both in gold.

His other hand trailed lower, fingertips tracing the line of her waist, dipping to the curve of her hip, then further, daring to cup the firm swell of her rear.

And then—sharp pain.

"Mmm!" he grunted, breaking the kiss, more out of surprise than pain. His hand flew back as if scorched. Cerys's lips curled into a mischievous smile, her fingers still pinching the back of his offending hand.

"Careful," she teased, her voice a playful whisper, but there was a spark of warning in her eyes. "I said I'm almost ready. Not all the way yet."

He laughed, half in relief, half in fond frustration, rubbing the faint red mark she'd left. "A dangerous woman… but I should've known."

"You did." She let her fingers trail down his chest, smoothing the rumpled fabric he'd pulled on with all the haste of a half-distracted prince. Her thumb brushed over a faint, lingering warmth her lips had left behind on his jawline. "And yet you still try."

"Never learned how to quit while I'm ahead." He leaned forward again, lips hovering a hair's breadth from hers. "Or maybe I just like the challenge."

Her laughter was a low, warm note, and she didn't pull away. Instead, her hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, her touch gentle yet firm. "Mikhailis… you have plenty of challenges. Don't add me to the list."

"Too late." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "You're already my favorite."

She huffed, though the pink flush on her cheeks betrayed her. "And here I thought I was just your instructor."

"You are. Best instructor I've ever had." He leaned in again, but this time she turned her head, and his lips grazed the curve of her cheek instead.

"Save the flattery for the training grounds," she whispered, though her hand lingered on his collar. "Or I'll have you doing push-ups until your arms turn to jelly."

He chuckled, leaning back but not letting go of her. "That supposed to be a threat? Because it sounds like an invitation."

She raised a brow, her lips curling in a half-smile. "You wouldn't last two minutes."

"Oh, now you're just provoking me."

"Then prove me wrong," she whispered, and there was a hunger beneath her challenge, a flame hidden behind the soldier's calm.

Her hand slipped away, but not before tracing a faint line from his collarbone to his chest, a fleeting promise of more. She turned, her red ponytail swaying, and started for the door. Mikhailis watched her go, the curve of her figure framed by the morning light, the confident sway of her stride making his heart race again.

"Don't just stand there, Prince," she called over her shoulder, though she didn't look back. "I thought you said you didn't know how to quit."

A grin spread across his face, his pulse thundering in his ears. "Oh, you have no idea."

And with that, he followed, already bracing himself for whatever chaos the day might bring.

_____

The palace corridors buzzed with morning duties. Metal-soled boots clicked in drill-perfect cadence, maids swished past in lavender skirts, and the warm scent of polished cedar hung beneath arching vaults. Whenever Mikhailis and Cerys appeared at a crossing, conversation dipped, like water flattening under a sudden hush. Eyes followed them—some curious, some measuring, many whispering.

"The Prince-Consort… with Lady Cerys?" a page murmured, barely hiding his awe as he scurried by with a stack of scrolls.

Mikhailis cocked an eyebrow, leaning until his shoulder brushed Cerys's leather pauldron. "You're making me look too good," he said out of the side of his mouth, letting a crooked grin tug at the corner.

"I'm just your instructor," she answered smoothly, red ponytail flicking as she dipped her chin in greeting to a bowing guard. Yet her fingertips drifted across the back of his hand—a soft, secret brush that sent a pulse racing up his arm.

They reached the wide terrace overhanging the training yard. Morning sun already baked the packed sand, painting armor a blinding white. Rows of knights moved in disciplined files: shields lifted, blades striking wooden posts in thunderous unison. Closer to the paddock fence, raw recruits hacked at straw dummies, their footwork ragged but hearts eager. The instant Mikhailis descended the stone steps, chatter spiked—voices tumbling over one another in surprise.

"That's him, right?"

"Thought he only read books—"

"Shh, he'll hear you!"

Cerys strode to the weapon racks, her steps purposeful. She selected two ash-wood practice blades, the pale wood mottled from years of use, and tossed one underhand. Mikhailis snatched it mid-spin, letting the weight settle across his palm. It felt lighter than he remembered; or perhaps his arms had simply grown stronger since last he sparred in public.

"Warm-up," she ordered, rolling her shoulders until armor straps creaked. "Show me what you remember."

He gave the blade an idle twirl, the tip drawing lazy circles in the dust. A nearby recruit's jaw dropped. A sword is just a lever, same principles as a torque spanner, he reminded himself, adopting an easy guard.

A smirking young knight in polished half-plate stepped forward, confidence radiating from every perfect braid of his blond hair. "My lord, care for a round?" he asked, highborn courtesy balanced by the gleam of wanting to impress. From the edge of the training ground, Cerys's lips curved ever so slightly, a shadow of a smile. She knew better than any of them—knew the strength that lay behind Mikhailis's relaxed posture, the cunning behind that lazy grin. They see a scholar prince, she thought, but I see a wolf hiding in silk. Her arms remained folded, but her eyes never left him, a subtle pride warming her sharp gaze.

Well, I know Cerys is quite famous. Mikhailis thought on the other hand. He completely understand why the young soldier want to show off in front of the cool beauty, the famous lone wolf of Silvarion Thalor.

Mikhailis yawned theatrically, tapping the wooden tip against his shoulder. "Gentle round," he decided, flashing a harmless smile. "Haven't had breakfast. Wouldn't want to faint in front of the lads."

A ripple of laughter skittered across the onlookers.

They squared off. The knight opened with a textbook lunge—front foot sliding, blade straight for the torso. Mikhailis rotated a wrist, meeting the thrust on the flat, guiding it past his side. In the same breath he tipped the hilt, tapped the fellow's gauntleted wrist. Wood met steel with a crack. The knight's fingers spasmed; his weapon clattered onto the sand.

Gasps mixed with stifled chuckles. Mikhailis stepped back, twirling his own sword once before resting it across bowed shoulders. "Your form's fine," he said lightly. "Your grip… needs breakfast."

Color flared on the knight's cheeks—half embarrassment, half grudging respect. He saluted and retrieved his blade.

A taller fighter pushed through the small crowd—broad, freckled, sporting a scar across one brow. He hefted a two-handed practice greatsword. "My turn, sire?"

"If you insist," Mikhailis answered, rolling neck muscles. Heavy swings: conserve energy, redirect force, he reminded himself.

They circled. The larger man led with a downward cleave meant to finish fights in a single blow. Sand plumed where the strike landed—except Mikhailis had slipped left, guiding the momentum wide with a brushing parry that stung his palms. Before the taller knight could reset, Mikhailis sidestepped inside the guard, shoulder nudging the man's rib. A sweep of his leg and a twist of wrists, and the greatsword wielder hit the ground with an oof, staring up at empty sky.

The ring erupted—hoots, whistles, a few incredulous shouts. Someone muttered, "Did you even see him move?"

Laughter rippled among the recruits. The felled knight let out a rueful grunt, accepting Mikhailis's hand to stand. Dust snowed off his backplate.

Whispers sprang up like startled sparrows: He's toying with them… didn't even break a sweat…

Mikhailis exhaled, wiping a nonexistent bead from his brow, and offered the greatsword back. "Good power," he said kindly. "You telegraph your hips, though. Maybe loosen the stance?"

The taller knight blinked, then barked a laugh, nodding thanks. He retreated, pride smarting but spirits oddly lifted.

A third challenger—stocky, eyes bright with careful calculation—stepped forward. Yet before he could speak, Cerys cleared her throat. The sound cut through chatter like a chord cut short.

She stood near the rack, arms folded over her chestplate, boot tapping a patient rhythm. Sunsilver highlights danced on her hair. There was pride in her half-smile, but also a silent warning: Don't get cocky.

Most of the yard had paused. Sparring dummies dangled unstruck, shields lowered. Even the drill instructor on the far side shaded his eyes for a clearer view.

Mikhailis twirled the ash blade again, slower this time, feeling the hum through his grip. Muscles warm, breath steady. He let a corner of his mouth tilt upward at Cerys. Still got it.

And Cerys—arms crossed, proud smile tucked beneath calm façade—watched every subtle shift of his weight, the precision of his footwork, the amused but razor-sharp focus in his dark eyes. She ignored the whispers, the incredulous looks. She simply watched, and in that gaze was something fierce, almost possessive, as though every successful parry verified what she already knew: their prince was no soft scholar, but a blade hidden in velvet.