Nick winces as my next strike connects solidly with his forearm. “Ow! Easy!”
His eyes flash as something in him snaps. Gone is the condescending trainer. His stance changes. No more holding back. He meets my next attack with genuine resistance, and for the first time, we engage in a real fight.
Finally!
To my amazement, my strikes follow perfect form. Lead with the blade, extend, lunge forward. My weapon arm throbs, but I push through the pain. A surprised laugh escapes me. I’m doing it. I’m actually—
My concentration breaks. A movement in the mirror—Dante is observing, his expression inscrutable.
Nick’s sword slips past my guard.
White-hot pain explodes across my jaw as wood connects with skin.
I crash onto the mat, the impact forcing air from my lungs and sending stars dancing across my vision. Through the haze of pain, something unexpected stirs beneath my ribs.
Something electric.
Excitement?
Adrenaline?
Through blurred vision, I see Nick’s face hovering above me, panic etched into every feature. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Can you see me?”
Despite the throbbing in my jaw, my lips curl into a crooked smile.
Then—
“What the fuck?” The voice cuts through the gym like thunder.
Dante.
He crosses the training floor in four long strides, his broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent lights overhead.
“It was an accident. She stepped into it,” Nick explains, holding up three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I mumble, trying to push myself upright. My arms wobble beneath me, and my fingers slide uselessly against the sweat-slick mat. My waster lies out of reach.
A hand enters my field of vision.
It’s his.
“Let me help you up,” he offers, hand extended but waiting for my permission.
“I’m okay,” I insist, though the words come out thicker than intended. My pulse pounds as Dante turns his attention back to Nick.
“An overhead strike? On a beginner?” Dante’s voice is controlled but tight with anger. I watch the muscles in his forearms tense as he steps closer to Nick. “What were you thinking?”
“She’s tougher than she looks,” Nick says, glancing at me. “Right?”
I give him a thumbs-up and reach for my weapon.
Dante’s boot presses down on the wooden blade before I can grab it. I look up, meeting his stern gaze through strands of damp hair. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts—so subtle I almost miss it. He turns back to Nick.
“You should never let her engage without gear.”
“I was just defending myself,” Nick protests, taking a defensive step back. “What was I supposed to do?”
“You don’t hit back,” Dante says flatly.
