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As he looked on stupefied at me finally laying it all out there, the furor of my conviction, my confidence in who and what I was, the fighter in me out in full force, I strode to him.
He eyed me warily as I stopped just a couple of feet from him.
“So, then, here we are. You go back into that house and you die. The only thing stopping you from getting out through that tunnel, though, is me.”
He scoffed. “You think you can stop me from leaving?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
Our eyes locked, mine boring into his with absolutely no respite.
And then he made the underhanded move I’d been expecting.
He pulled a blade and moved to stab my ribcage where I’d anticipated he’d then sharply angle up and puncture my lung to put me out of the fight in a brutal and immediate way, where he’d have me beg him to save my life in exchange for more punishment down the road, dungeon and slaughterhouse style.
Unfortunately for him, I was no green combatant. I’d been training my whole life, unbeknownst to him, far beyond that which he’d had his people teach me so I wasn’t a weak heir apparent.
I snagged his wrist before the knife could penetrate, his shock obvious, and costing him precious seconds that I used to my advantage, slamming my fist into the underside of his chin, that had his head snapping back and him wavering. I thrust my knee into his wrist, enabling me to wrench the knife free.
I spun it in my hand, his eyes wide at the skill I was demonstrating—and warning him with.
And then I tossed it.
He grunted as it plunged into his shoulder.
As he fell back and struggled to pull it out, I was there doing it for him, twisting it, then wrenching it free, enjoying the roar of pain that tore from his throat.
Before I could bring it down again, he was there, blocking the trajectory with both hands.
He thrust his hands forward with a sudden jerk and they smashed into my face. A kick in the balls managed to force me back as blinding pain ripped through me.
Motherfucker.
Underhanded moves indeed.
Cowardly moves.
He was a real piece of shit through and through.
He came at me while I was reeling, bringing the blade down toward my throat.
I snagged his wrist at the last second, then managed to overpower his strength and wrench it free, but, through the struggle, it went sailing across the room through the open door in the process.
And it also gave him the opportunity to kick me in the face.
I fell back and slapped one hand to the concrete, using it to push myself upright, as I fought to turn the blinding pain and accompanying nausea around. In the process, it cost me another kick to the face, then a sucker punch to the gut.
I went down on my back.
And then he was snagging my tactical jacket, hauling me off the floor, then tossing me face-first into the wall. I grunted as my face smashed against it, blood exploding from my nose and lip.
“There’s a fine line between confidence and arrogance,” he spoke, his voice echoing off the walls.
Along with his footsteps that were actually moving away from me.
What was he playing at?
“You’d know all about that,” I bit back, trying to push off the wall to turn around.
