Page 125 of Blade of the Nightking

“It is.”

And then he came at me again. The impact drove the breath from my lungs for the fourth time that morning as he slammed me down.

“Do you yield?”

I stared up at him with pure hatred burning through me.

“You’re not teaching me anything.”

“And I’m not going to,” he replied calmly. Then again: “Do you yield?”

The word tore out of me like a curse. “Yes.”

When I was back on my feet again, I faced him, chest heaving.

“How am I supposed to learn what to do,” I demanded, “if you refuse to teach me?”

He tilted his head. “Teach yourself.”

And then he attacked again.

Again and again he drove me into the mat hard enough to jar my bones. Each time he pinned me so completely I could scarcely move, his forearm firm across my throat while he repeated the same infuriating question. “Do you yield?”

And every single time, eventually, I did.

It became painfully obvious that he meant exactly what he'd said. He wasn't going to teach me a damned thing.

Fine.

The next time he took me down, I didn't even bother struggling against his hold. I lay still instead, glaring up at him with all the venom I could muster.

It doesn't matter how strong someone is if you can find the flaw in their balance—and use it.

Segolayne's words cut through my anger.

I forced my breathing to slow. Fury had gotten me nowhere. I had to find a weakness.

My awareness narrowed to the impossible closeness between us—to every point where his body pressed against mine. Every place we touched—every place we didn't. His forearm across my throat. One hand planted beside my head, supporting his weight. His legs were a cage.

I squirmed experimentally, and a low sound rumbled in his throat.

Sideways was impossible. But… Up.

Heat crept into my face.

Gods.

"Do you yield?" he rasped.

Slowly, I bent my knees, testing the little freedom I still had. Enough. Just enough.

"Yes," I breathed.

He released me.

I climbed back to my feet across from him, pulse hammering. Rìan prowled toward me once more. And again he struck fast enough that the world blurred. The mat slammed into my back. His weight pinned me again. But this time, before he could even open his mouth—I moved.

Planting both feet firmly against the mat, I thrust my hips upward against his, breaking his balance. His forearm left my throat as he threw a hand to the mat to stop himself from pitching forward and⁠—