It must be the workout adrenaline. Definitely not the faint trace of smoke that seems to follow him everywhere he goes.
Goodness gracious, Reese!
“I’ve just—I’ve been training nonstop.” The words pile up in my throat, too heavy to hold back.“And I’m not making any progress. It’s not coming easy to me.”
“Don’t be hard on yourself. Your form is impressive for a beginner. Decent balance. Obviously determined. Sometimes that matters more than being a natural.” I’m taken aback by the sincerity in his tone. Before I can react, his mouth curves into a smirk that is both infuriating and gorgeous. “Look, I know you want to go at this on your own, but I train here, around eight, by myself. I’m happy to help you work on that sword grip.”
Cleo’s words echo in my mind.Fingers wrapped around a big, vulnerable—
No.
Absolutely not.
He swooped in here trying to be some kind of savior. Sure, it was impressive. But I’m certain he’d love nothing more than for me tothankhim. The implication is heavy. And I hate how much some untamed and ridiculous part of me wants to take him up on his offer—with his talk of sword grip and training alone.
Just when I think he’s being genuine, he ruins it.
“I appreciate your offer, but I can take care of myself,” I say reluctantly, not forgetting my manners though he’s driving me up a wall.
“Suit yourself, fighter.” He shrugs, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Fighter?”
“With a mark like that, I’d say you’ve earned it.”
I nearly blush, or maybe I don’t. I can’t tell. Another trainee calls out Dante’s name, and he looks back, craning his neck so I can see the tattoo.What is it?Intricate, highly detailed artwork that has my stomach going tight again. I spin away, desperate to break the spell.
How dare he make me feel things?
With his stupid perfect hair, his stupid perfect smirk, and his stupid perfect…everything.
This is a betrayal to feminism of the highest order.
“We should both get back to work,” I say when he looks back at me—does he know I was staring?
“My cabin’s the one closest to the lake.”
“Okay?”
“Now you know where to find me,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. “I’m at your beck and call.”
I retrieve the sword from the ground and hurry away from him and whatever strange tension was radiating between us.
Focus.
I head for the mirror, propping my weapon carefully against the nearby wall.
My hair has escaped its French braids, strands of blonde clinging wildly to my sweat-soaked neck. I imagine cutting it all off, how liberating it might feel, and the thought lingers rather than vanishes. There is a bruise already forming on my jaw. It’s an angry purple mark.
I study it, deliberately not shifting my gaze to the figure lingering behind me in the mirror.
The woman in my reflection isn’t simply pretty—she’s commanding her space, she’s tough, she makes tough choices. Maybe those choices aren’t well-thought-out, like ripping off her gear and whacking her trainer with a wooden sword. But she’s never done that before. Progress.
That’s what matters.
Not whatever that was with Dante.
Of course, my eyes shift to his reflection as he directs the other stunt performers. I can’t forget how I spent hours watching his matches on YouTube last weekend, how he seemed to dominate every match he was in.
