Page 135 of Blade of the Nightking

“Twist.”

I started to pivot. His grip tightened instantly, locking me in place. I stilled, his instruction clear without him needing to say a word.

Not away. Toward.

Carefully, I tried again. This time, I turned into him.

My shoulder slid along his chest, the movement drawing me closer instead of freeing me. I felt it then—the slight give in his hold. The narrow opening I hadn't noticed before. The subtle shift in his balance as mine changed.

Lightning flashed again. And suddenly I was facing him.

So close that I could feel his breath against my lips, the rise and fall of his chest, the tension coiled through him as tightly as it was through me.

His gaze latched onto mine. Unblinking. Intent.

For a single, suspended moment, neither of us moved.

The storm crashed against the walls—but it felt distant, dulled beneath the pounding in my chest. I was dangerously close to the male who’d brought an entire continent to its knees.

There was something strange happening between us, something slipping just beyond my grasp. A steadiness to him, almost gentle in the way he guided me, that I couldn't make sense of. Because he wasn't gentle.

There was nothing gentle in his touch. Or his voice. Or his eyes.

His body was hard and honed, a lethal weapon in itself. And yet… infinitely patient⁠—

“Push,” he finished, his breath stirring the loose strands of hair at my forehead.

My mouth suddenly dry, I planted my hands against his chest. Hard muscle met my palms, warm and solid—and beneath it, I could have sworn his heart was beating just as fiercely as mine. I shoved, breaking away from him, stumbling back to the edge of the mat.

I was free.

It had all happened so slowly that I didn’t understand why I was panting now. Why his breathing was just as ragged as mine.

My skin brightened, the silver in his eyes sparking. The ink curled up around his brow.

“You felt that,” he called from where he stood.

I hoped to hell he meant the hold. The maneuver.

“Yes,” I rasped.

He stepped back to the center of the mat. After a steadying breath, I followed.

“Again, then.”

He was on me in an instant, quick as an adder. He spun me into the same hold, my back colliding hard against him. As fast as I could, I tried to break free—but I rushed it, the movements clumsy. He held me still.

“Slow,” he murmured against my ear.

I hated the way my body reacted to his proximity, to his touch. Hated the way my magic reached for him. All I wanted was to wrench myself free and put as much distance between us as possible.

But I listened. Again, I moved through it, like a dance.

Step. Back. Twist. Push.

I slipped free of his grasp.

Again, we went through the move until it flowed naturally, speeding it up until it became one continuous motion, fluid as water.