Chapter Text
It’s finally happening, the moment you’ve been dreading for months: Your name gets called out for the next challenge, and your opponent is announced to be… Imogen.
It was bound to happen eventually. There was really no escaping it, if not through the mere math of dwindling cadets, then through the cruel humor of fate itself. Because Imogen, beautiful, rough, sarcastic Imogen who absolutely despises you, has been your heart’s fervent obsession for the last year.
It doesn’t matter how many times she’s tripped you, or dug an elbow painfully into your neck in passing. She can be clear across the dining hall and you’ll still search for her, your eyeballs drawn like scavenger birds to the gorgeous curve of her skull, framed by pink softness that you can only fantasize the feel of in your fingers. And when her eyes inevitably meet yours, your neck never fails to heat with embarrassment as she grins maliciously right back at you.
She thinks you fear her, and she’s right. You’re terrified of how helpless you feel in her presence, how a corner of your mind is always tracking her location and estimating the proximity of your bodies. You hate the way you get anxious when she’s near and depressed when she’s not. And you absolutely despise yourself for staying up one night when all the mage lights should have been out, admiring the finger shaped bruises that she gave you for laughing at one of Garrik’s jokes that day.
“You find that funny, bitch?” she’d hissed in your ear, carving her fingertips into your bicep until you had to lock your jaw to keep from crying out in pain. “You don’t deserve to laugh with us. You don’t deserve to share our fucking air.”
Gods, the way that didn’t deter your feelings in the slightest. You probably have some kind of fucked up humiliation kink. Or maybe it’s actual brain damage, like falling from your dragon that one time knocked all self preservation instinct right out of your head, because every little bit of attention she gives you feels like life. It’s an explosion of energy through your chest, so raw and exciting that even the helplessness feels good when she’s got you pinned with her eyes.
And now you find yourself frozen in panic on the mat, stuck halfway through getting up while you automatically whip your head towards where she’s sitting with her friends. Every single one of them is currently sizing you up, except for, surprisingly, Imogen herself. She merely nods to the instructor and pushes herself upright, looking out across the open windows with an expression of immense boredom, because apparently you’re unworthy of even a taunt today.
Fuck, you’re dead. Literally, you’re about to die. You rise to your feet in disbelief, failing to come to terms with it while your friends offer encouragement behind you. They’ve never noticed your infatuation, or if they did they’ve probably assumed it’s, you know, actual healthy fear. Everyone knows Imogen is out to get you because of who your father is, and it makes sense that you’d be scared for your life at this moment. The person sympathetically patting your shoulder right now can’t even begin to comprehend your actual dilemma, knowing you have to now choose between dying, or hurting the woman whose mere existence makes your heart hurl up pink vomit.
“You can beat her,” a friend tells you confidently, and they might be right. Maybe in some alternate universe where Imogen means nothing to you, you could submit her. After all, you’re a decent fighter. You’ve made it this far in this deathtrap of a school, and any outside observer would logically assume that her aggressive behavior has made you harbor some intense hatred. Hell, they probably think you’ll try to kill her.
You don’t want to kill her, you don’t even want to hurt her. On a list of all the things you’ve ever wanted to do to Imogen, you’d be hard pressed to find anything that doesn’t involve saliva and gentle fingers.
Numbly you cross over to toe the edge of the sparring mat, and Imogen finally raises her eyes to your face from the other side. Such beautiful, siren eyes, which only take a single blink of dark lashes to evaporate every combat maneuver you’ve learned, straight out of your head. She positions her hand for the dagger at her side, and waits.
So, yeah.
You’re fucked.
All you wanted was to stay alive. It felt impossible to expect anything better than a few dozen stitches and an overnight in the infirmary, and yet here you are hours later, leaning against the stone hallway with barely a bruised rib. Imogen’s bedroom is right there in front of you, the soft glow of a mage light illuminating the crack under her door in a deceptively inviting way. You stand there endlessly staring at that flickering warmth, but still you don’t move.
Over and over the memory repeats itself in your mind:
Imogen, with the weight of her body forcing your shoulder into the unforgiving edge of the mat. She glares down at you as she huffs in rapid pants through her teeth. “You’re lucky,” she says, angling her fingers to make your hand spasm open and drop the dagger with a flare of pain, “that you’re so fucking pretty.”
She hadn’t even spared you a glance after that, just taken your weapon and strolled back to her friends, shoulders stiff in distaste. You were left to lie there in shock, blinking in confusion and unable to muster the will to move until your friends took it upon themselves to peel you up off the floor.
Somehow you’re alive. You’re alive, and she decided not to hurt you, and she called you pretty. Imogen – Imogen – thinks you’re fucking pretty.
One by one the cracks go dark along the dormitory hall. A few riders quietly come or go to seek out someone else’s bed, but none of them spare you more than a quick glance. Why would they? You’re no one, just an ordinary, unimportant girl who for some reason would rather stand here pining after what she can’t have than relax in her own bed.
You’re lucky…
Fucking pretty…
You’re so fucking pretty…
Slowly the memory changes, shifting into a ridiculous fantasy where instead of pinning you, Imogen is holding you. Her body is relaxed, adjusting to give her breasts better contact with yours, and her mouth is soft and upturned as she gazes down at your face. She’s calling you pretty, and this time it sounds more like an endearment than a threat. It’s quiet and direct, and her eyes have that same delicious fire they always do, but it doesn’t mean hatred this time. She wraps her hand around your throat and it feels so fucking good, it has your stomach dipping violently and your pulse thrumming against her fingers as she begins to lower her mou—
“The fuck are you doing here?”
Your whole body jerks skyward at the familiarly harsh voice coming from the other end of the hallway. There’s really no possibility of it being anyone else, but still you desperately hope for it in the single second it takes to whip your head in her direction.
And you’re totally unprepared for what that one glance does to you. Because up until now, Imogen has existed as merely a concept in your mind – a pathetic fantasy of someone who is somehow capable of returning your feelings. But now she’s walking towards you, wearing the same sleeping tunic and leggings that you are, and even in the dim light of the hall you can see that her hair is still damp from the showers.
She looks— fuck, she looks exposed like this. It doesn’t matter that she’s advancing on you with narrowed eyes, her gaze flicking over your body and then the empty hallway as if she believes this is some kind of trap. You’ve never seen her this vulnerable, clad only in soft cotton, unarmed and rumpled in a way that makes her seem shockingly human.
“Well?” she demands, and you’re forced to remember your unfortunate existence as she comes to a halt in front of her door.
You squash the impulse to make your body as small as possible against the wall. “I was—” you start to explain, then pause to swallow the dryness suddenly clogging your throat— “Um, I was…”
She scrunches her nose up at your stuttering and scoffs out, “Uh, huh,” before turning her back on you and beginning to unlock the wards on her door. “If you’re looking to kill me, you’ll need to be more subtle than this.”
“Actually, I wanted to— to talk to you.”
The tense line of her shoulders becomes impossibly even more rigid, and she stills there for a moment with her hand wrapped around the doorknob. She isn’t opening it, doesn’t even bother to turn and look at you when she finally replies, in a dangerously quiet tone, “About what, exactly?”
Fuck, is talking too much to ask for? Maybe you interpreted everything wrong after all, projected your own feelings onto her like some delusional idiot, and now you’re one confession away from forfeiting your life after all.
But you have to know, that’s the thing. It’s been killing you for a whole year, and now you have to know.
“Can I come in for a minute?” you finally force out.
“Fine,” she gruffs, shoving the door open with her boot and jerking her chin in an unmistakable order to enter.
Gods, you want to be cool about it. You want to stride in like you own the place, grab the back of her neck and mash your mouth against hers. But the reality is that you hesitantly follow her across the threshold, trying to keep your footsteps silent and your body language as unthreatening as possible. You’re pretty, remember? Pretty, and stupid when she’s around, and definitely not a threat.
Imogen waits until the door clicks closed before facing you and unceremoniously demanding, “What do you want?”
You’ve memorized this expression of hers, the flat, bored mask that she puts on when she has to get through something that’s more painful than people realize. It’s a form of self preservation, but it still makes you want to hold her upside down and shake her until her true feelings fall out.
“Why didn’t you kill me today?” you ask simply.
Her expression doesn’t change, but there’s a definite bob of her throat right before she says, “Didn’t think you were worth the effort.”
Lie, obvious lie. She’s got her eyes connected with yours too forcefully, like she’s trying to mind-control you to forget all about it.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Do I look like I care what you believe? The door’s right there, princess.” Imogen throws a hand off her hip to gesture unnecessarily to the only exit.
You don’t move a muscle. It’s not that you’re staring her down exactly, but you definitely force yourself to meet her gaze as steady and honest as you can, biding your time and waiting for that mask to slip. It only has to slip a little, just enough for you to dig your fingers under it and begin to pry it off.
With a dismissive shake of her head, Imogen plops her ass down on the bed and crosses an ankle over her knee. She pointedly holds your eyes as she pulls a dagger from her boot in one fluid motion, and then immediately tosses it on her desk as if she’s decided you’re too useless to bother keeping it nearby.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are just an annoying little shit, because even though you’re too terrified to say what you feel, you’re also too stubborn to leave.
Imogen tilts her head and croons, “Are you gonna take my shoes off for me, daddy’s girl?”
The breath catches in your throat, and your eyes automatically flick down to the boot still resting on her knee. Your pulse is suddenly pounding in your ears, though your body stays religiously still. “I’ll do anything you want me to do,” you answer slowly, with horrific honesty.
She merely narrows her eyes in response, drops both feet to the ground and continues to watch your every movement.
Fucking hell, goddammit.
You thought there’d be more preamble than this. A softened expression, a touch, something, anything but getting on your fucking knees right in front of her just to prove your desperation.
You take a deep breath, and then quietly step forward. One after another your knees hit the cold stone as you lower yourself down. You can’t bear to meet her eyes like this, and simply take hold of the back of her ankle, resting her foot in your lap so you can begin to work on the laces.
“Gods, you’re annoying,” Imogen mutters, and you hear the bed creak as she leans back on her hands. “Bet your dear daddy sent you here to get rid of you.”
Your fingers lose their automatic rhythm for a second, but it’s all loose enough now that you’re able to ease her boot off and calmly place it on the floor.
“I sent myself, and I don’t like him any more than you do.”
You chance an upward glance as you guide the other foot into your lap, and see Imogen eyeing you speculatively. “And yet, here you are. A rider. A weapon for him.”
“Yes, here I am. I’m bonded to a dragon, I’m getting stronger every year, and for the first time in my life, I have a say in who spits on me.”
Imogen’s mouth tightens, and you wonder if the shadow that crosses her face then is a flash of understanding, if she’s just realized that the only reason she’s been able to bully you is because you’ve selectively allowed it.
Dipping your head back down, you methodically work through the next set of laces, top to bottom. Your own boots are digging into your ass but you barely feel it as you uncover her socked foot and hold it there in your lap as you set her shoes aside. Her ankle feels so solid with your fingers wrapped around it, healthy and strong and still somehow shapely, just like the rest of her.
Imogen’s foot twitches in your hand, and you look up to see her frowning at you. That part is familiar. It takes no remarkable bravery to let that irritation flow over you, to blink up at her and smooth your thumb over the top of her foot.
Without warning it’s wrenched out of your grasp, and she flops over to lay on her bed.
“You can leave now,” she tells you, draping a forearm over her eyes like it’s some miserable chore to continue looking at you.
Well, that was something, you suppose. She didn’t try to hurt you, so that surely counts as progress. Rising to your feet, you glance at her body stretched out on the bed and murmur, “Goodnight, Imogen.”
And that makes her toes inexplicably curl in her socks.
You shouldn’t have noticed that. That was something you were never meant to see, a little movement that anyone else would have missed. But you saw it.
Your stomach dips in fear, but you manage to swallow it down, manage to keep yourself from running away and just stand there until you can once again breathe normally.
“It’s okay, you know,” you say gently, and reach out to lightly squeeze the top of her foot.
There’s a jolt of surprise under your hand, and she yanks her arm aside to stare up at you with the most terrified look you’ve ever seen on her features.
And nothing, absolutely nothing, has ever given you more hope than that uncharacteristic flash of fear. It’s gone just as suddenly as it came, but it was enough. The way you instantly recognized it, the way it so perfectly echoed the emotion in your own chest, has determination suddenly flooding through you.
Without a second of hesitation, without another fucking thought, you plant your knee on the side of the mattress and swing your leg over Imogen’s hips.