Hushed whispers from the crowd surround me, some derisive, others hungry for spectacle. I catch Stella’s quiet sniggers and hushed insults through the chatter.
My heart hammers as I walk toward him.
Thorne raises his hand. “Celeste is a first-year, and while I’m sure she’s talented, her skills will not be up to task.”
“I chooseher,” Gavrail says, sharp, clipped, with conviction.
Thorne’s gaze sharpens, flicking between us. He studies Gavrail—calculating—then me—curious. For a breathless moment, I think he’ll refuse. But then he steps back and nods. “You may accept or decline the challenge, Miss Farris. The decision is yours.”
I try to draw in a steadying breath as I stand next to the ring, looking up at Gavrail. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. But his eyes hold a challenge. He’sdaringme. Like when he dared me to jump off that waterfall when I was thirteen. Or when we took a joy ride in his father’s treasured restored Volga on his sixteenth birthday.
My eyes narrow. “I accept.” It comes out more growl than speech.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Thorne smile, like he’s just been handed a gift, a spectacle that he’s been wanting to see.
Gavrail offers me a hand to pull me up and I take it. His grip is warm, infallible, a tether I don’t dare trust. A spark runs from his palm into mine, quick and charged, as if the touch means more than it should. I pull my hand away the instant my feet hit the platform, before the current can root itself deeper.
He waits for me to set my feet before extending a hand to me, two fingers curling toward himself to tell me to begin.
I stand on the mat, shoulders squaring with determination. And then I rush him—remembering Noa’s words:
“You’re small, Celeste. Use it to your advantage. Strike first and you can dictate the tempo. Your opponent will then be reacting toyou,rather thanyoureacting tothem. You want to get inside their reach to deny them the space they need to build force against you.”
My muscle memory from my Sunday drills with Noa takes over—jab, feint, low kick.
Gavrail shifts only a fraction, deflecting each blow on rigid forearms and solid shoulders. He never strikes. He simply remains immovable—precision in-fucking-carnate.
I pivot and press in again—two quick punches to his guard, a snap kick aimed at his ribs. He absorbs them easily, his feet barely moving. He seems to anticipate every strike, every step, as if he knows exactly what I’m about to do before I do it. His eyes—cool and assessing—narrow a fraction, a small smile on his beautiful face.Damn him.My breath quickens. I continue my barrage of punches and kicks against his wall of stone, tiring as I do so, slowly running out of breath.
He’sstudyingme. Letting me exhaust myself. Letting metry.
My knuckles sting, frustration burning hotter than exertion. Sweat trickles into my eyes, salt stinging as my chest heaves. And still his gaze tracks me, like a judge waiting for the guilty to confess.
I lunge one last time—a desperate overhand punch. Overextended and reckless.
That’s when he finally moves.
Gavrail’s hand closes on my wrist. His grip is iron, callouses scraping my skin as if he could brand me with touch alone. In a single fluid motion, he twists, pulling me around until my back slams against his chest. The breath punches from my lungs and a startled sound escapes me—a low gasp, half snarl, half something else. His arm is locked around my middle, my pulse thundering in my ears. He has me. I can feel his breath, warm at my neck.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the heat between us and the solid weight of him behind me. My body betrays me—fire flaring where fear should be. And he fucking knows it.Bastard.
“Glad to see you’re better at this than when we were children,” he says quietly into the shell of my ear, his voice dark velvet. “But you still leave your left side open.”
And I can feel him.Allof him. The hard lines of his body against the soft curves of mine. Restraint so potent it crackles.
Anger and something more flares under my skin. I surge again, feinting to stamp his instep and disrupt his stance, driving my heel as hard as I can into the side of his knee. His weight jerks, leg buckling. His knee hits the mat, and for one second, he’s down. I twist?—
His hand clamps around my waist. The world tilts. The floor rushes up, and he follows me down like a shadow—heavy, relentless—until his hips pin mine, owning my center of gravity, and I’m left staring up at him, breath gone.
He leans down, the corner of his mouth ghosting my ear. “If you wanted me on my knees, Celeste, you could have just asked. You and I both know I’mperfectlycomfortable in that position when it comes to you.”
Oh my fucking gods. Did he seriously just?—
I bridge hard, trying to throw him off, but his hold is unrelenting. “Glad to see you’re still just as cocky,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Correct,” he says, that infuriating smirk back in place.
Time stretches—muscle memory and emotion colliding—until the clear, sharp sound of a throat clearing cuts through the air.
