“You’re playing a dangerous game.” He starts to circle, but I don’t let him see my back as I continue to turn with him.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.” I move first, but he blocks before I drive my dagger up through his gut.
My smirk is met with one of his own, neither playful.
Wilder leans in so his mouth is near my ear as he whispers, “Are you feeling brave now that the king wants to bend you over his bed?”
Rage courses through me with the heat of a thousand suns. I push him back a step and aim for his throat, missing.
“Are you jealous knowing I’d rather it be him than you?” The lie is rancid on my tongue.
I hate that it’s a lie at all. I have no right to wish anything from a male who has a mate. My enemy, at that. But the thought of the king is somehow worse. It’s downright wrong. Every fiber in my body rejects it.
Wilder moves, and we begin a dance of blades and steps. I’m no longer thinking; I’m simply moving like an instrument in battle. His dagger slices through my leathers, and mine rips through his skin. But neither of us flinches, neither stops.
My mouth tastes like blood; my heart is beating so hard. My chest heaves. But I dip and duck and weave. I don’t let anything distract me. Not the call of birds at a distance or Wilder’s burning eyes. I move like I was taught.
Like I did on Alyssium when the rebels came, and it was my life or theirs.
Until Wilder moves with brute force and I slip away, spinning, nearly managing to plant my dagger in his arm before he catches my wrist with his hand and forces it overhead, pinning me to a tree while I hold a dagger at his throat.
“Just when I thought this training was getting pointless.” Wilder stands over me, blocking out the sun.
The breeze.
All I see is him.
And even if Fae hearts beat at a fraction of the speed of that of a human, I swear his races.
“If training me is so pointless, why do you bother showing up at all?”
“One of us has to make sure you’re ready.”
“Wouldn’t you rather I fail?”
His hum vibrates the air between us. The leather straps hugging my ribs are suddenly a little tighter. I should not think about the bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face, or how full his lips are when he’s standing this close to me.
He was crafted from the seventh stratum of Sarrow simply to ruin my life, and yet, I’m the one who resurrected him.
“I’d rather many things over you failing, Elorie, including returning to the prison.” Something in his tone is fierce and unwavering.
“Even if I choose him?” I swallow hard, and his gaze moves to my throat. “Assuming my magic wakes.”
“There’s nothing to assume.” His eyes meet mine, and I want to ask him what he’s talking about, but I can’t breathe with him this close.
Blood charges through my veins, and the prickle of his magic surrounds me. Flecks of lightning that stick to my skin and set my bones on fire.
Heat courses through my veins. My vision tunnels. The daggers in my hands are no longer a separate entity; they are a part of me. Like the seeds of a dandelion floating in the breeze. The whisper on the wind. As if my aura stretches out and I’m one with all that’s around. The stone beneath my feet and the bark rubbing my skin.
Darkness and light.
Night and day.
Opposites and somehow the same.
Wilder steps closer, and my skin burns. Iron steals my breath, and my tongue tingles.
He reaches up, brushing a thumb over my cheek, just below my freckles. “There you are, Starfire. Now try not tomiss next time.”