My opponent remains a mystery. Hopefully, my first match will be someone more like Dominic, the thought-to-be-extinct pig shifter, and less like Lyss. The arachne shifter is... well, she’s a monster. While I wouldn’t mind getting a beer with her, I’m in no hurry to have her sharp-ass legs poking holes in me again.
“Overthinking won’t help, My Truth.”
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth to bite back my retort. “I know,” I admit. At my side on the mat, Malach radiates heat. It’s a small comfort—at least I can still make him work up a sweat. I wish it weren’t so distracting.
The thing about Malach I had almost forgotten is his pragmatic bluntness. He doesn’t say things to get a rise out of me; hesays them because he thinks they need to be said. And while he teases me sometimes, he’s never trying to piss me off.
It’s the difference between him and most Fringes supernaturals—that instinctive urge to prod, rile, and agitate. Some call it killer instinct; I think it’s more about testing limits: knowing how far you can push someone before they snap.
“I’m trying not to think at all,” I say.
Malach grunts. “The middle ground is the better place to make your stand.”
I yawn and nudge his shoulder with mine. “Do you think this even matters? If he wants me dead, which we know he does, he won’t give up.”
Dad’s burning eyes flash through my mind along with the familiar aura of rage that hovers around him. Sometimes dormant, it could activate over the slightest thing. There’s something in him that can’t be pacified, an evil that never fully goes away.
Back in the box. Put it back in the box, Celine.
“Don’t talk that way,” Malach says, rolling onto his side to face me. I feel his stare as intensely as if he were touching me. “You won’t give up either.”
“You’re right,” I whisper. “Because I can’t.”
It takes effort to peel my sore body off the mat, but I’m less winded by our training than I was at the start of the week. Even still, Malach is back on his feet before I am—proof that I’m not at the top of my game.
“We should work on your magic deflection strategies.”
I chuckle. “Dodge—that’s pretty much the whole strategy.”
He frowns. “You’re not without magic.”
“Yeah, but it would cause a scene. Making more enemies is the last thing we need. Especially if the enclave decides to come for me...”
Malach’s cheek twitches, and I shake my head. He may be grown up, but his tells are the same.
“Spit it out,” I drawl. “I’m not accepting half-truths in my inner circle right now.”
“That’s ironic,” Malach mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I plant my hands on my hips and stare at his face. From the dimple in his chin to his messy curls, he looks more god-like than angelic. It’s not fair.
“This enclave,” he says. “You fear its judgment yet persist in lying to yourself about the demon. As you said, you only have time to face your real enemies. He will not turn you in. You pretend it’s a concern when you know it isn’t.”
“You’re way too confident for someone who hasn’t even met the guy,” I hiss. “Ciprian is an expert at hiding his intentions. He ran circles around the rest of us, and we never even realized. The enclave may not care if we break petty laws, but killing a guard? If he tells his father, they’ll come for me.”
Malach cocks his head. “I judged his intent?—”
“Leave it alone. He’s a liar.” I raise my fists and drop into a fighting stance. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. We’re wasting time. Time we don’t have.”
“As this clearly upsets you, this is the last thing I’ll say?—”
“It doesn’t?—”
“Yes, it does. I only ask you to consider why you’re this angry with him. Is it because he withheld the full truth or because you weren’t smart enough to catch him doing it?”
I attack, hitting him with a flurry of punches.
Malach doesn’t have my strength, but he’s plenty strong on his own, strong enough that I don’t feel bad throwing haymakers his way, especially after that comment. He thinks this is about wounded pride? That’s bullshit.
