Page 48 of Storm of Ink and Blood

“Fight me for it,” he said, and he had to be joking. Not this again. “Prove to me you hate me as much as you claim.”

“I do hate you,” she hissed.

His mouth twisted into a smug smile. “Then you should have nothing to fear, Spitfire.”

She gripped the dagger so tight it shook in her hand. “Do not call me that. You have no right.” The words tore out of her, and she did her best not to show how much they affected her. He’d hurt her so deeply she felt like she was bleeding out on the floor, exposing herself for the world to witness her pain.

He reached behind his head and pulled out both swords from his back.

“Catch,” he said, launching one of them in her direction. Taken by surprise, she nearly missed, snatching it out of the air before it clattered to the floor. The hilt had been crafted to look like the mouth of a dragon with lapis lazuli eyes, and the honed steel blade was engraved with curls of fire. It was stunning.

“They were a gift from your father,” he said, and she nearly dropped it like it had burned her palm.

“Is this supposed to be funny?” she demanded. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you and I are destined.” Again, he said it with such unwavering conviction that it was impossible to argue. Almost.

“The paramadhar is not a romantic partner,” she said. “You are my servant.” She hurled the words at him, hoping they stung. “You would be bound to me. Destined to die when I die. You’d never have a life that’s yours. I would rule you in every way.”

The corner of his mouth twisted up in a cold smile, his dark, golden-flecked eyes chipped from the heart of a bottomless underground pit.

“I don’t care,” he snarled. “I’ll have you however you want.”

Anger boiled in her blood. He was so fucking sure of himself. She wanted to wipe that cocky smile off his face.

“I don’t want you,” she said, trying to infuse her voice with an arctic chill to rival the wind howling across the tundra. Her feelings weren’t quite so clear-cut, but she knew if she gave him an inch, he’d take it all. Her heart. Her body. Her spirit. And she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to take them back again.

“Show me how much you despise me, Zarya.”

Without warning, he crossed the room in three long strides and lifted his sword, swinging down. She had no choice but to block the attack at the last second, the air ringing with their clashing blades.

“I’m keeping the dagger,” she said, noting he held no other weapons.

“I would expect nothing less,” he said, spinning around and arcing his sword overhead. Again, she blocked it at the last second, almost stumbling from the force. His face stretched into a feral smile, one of a self-assured predator.

That pissed her off, and she launched into the fight. This time, he was the one who stumbled as she swung with all of her strength and precision.

She regretted training so hard with Yasen this afternoon because even in this dream she could feel the effects, her muscles and joints protesting due to her lack of training over the last few months. But she would die before she let Rabin have the upper hand.

Pushing aside her weariness, she fought with fury as they moved around the study, using the furniture to get in each other’s way. She swung, and he ducked as her sword bit into a bookshelf, her blade sinking into the wood. She wrenched on it, hoping it would ruin this stupid sword from her father.

She spun around and faced him, crowding him against the desk. He bent nearly backward before he flipped over, landing on top in a crouch. Fuck, that was impressive. He hopped back, dropping to the other side as she followed him around before they circled each other, keeping the desk between them. He leaped over the back of a chair, and she kicked it away, shoving it against the wall.

“You seem a little tired,” he said. “Where is that fire, Zarya?”

“Fuck you,” she said. “Are you trying to kill me? Fight harder, Commander. Because I’m going to kill you.”

She launched again, and their blades became a whirl as they fought. She was thankful she was at least wearing her training leathers after falling asleep next to Yasen, but she was tiring quickly.

Rabin advanced, and he wasn’t going easy on her anymore. Could they kill each other in this alternate dimension?

She tripped over the edge of a rug, landing on the large divan in the center of the room. Before she could scramble off, Rabin pounced on top, his knees landing on either side of her hips and his weight pinning her to the cushions. He wrenched the dagger from her hand and then pressed it to her throat hard enough to draw blood.

“Didn’t think you’d go down so easy, Spitfire,” he hissed, his dark eyes flashing with bursts of fiery gold.

“Get off me!” she bit out, struggling against his bulk. Fuck, why was he so heavy?

She continued thrashing, then went entirely still as her body reacted in ways she was trying to ignore. Why did fighting with him always bring out that needy quiver between her thighs? This was so annoying.