Page 82 of Storm of Ink and Blood

Zarya tipped her head. “Anything?”

“Anything.” His eyes gleamed with challenge.

“Take off the shirt,” she said, and without hesitation, he pulled it over his head and dropped it on the floor.

“Like what you see?” he asked with a cocky smile, sitting back and spreading his legs as he ran his palms over his powerful thighs. Yes, of course, she did. The man was all abs and chest and shoulders. He was absolutely breathtaking. If he asked, she’d probably willingly fall to her knees and run her tongue along every chiseled groove of his stomach. Maybe even if he didn’t.

She shrugged. “You’re all right.”

He laughed softly again. “Is that all? What about my pants?” He snapped his waistband as she narrowed her eyes.

“You keep those on,” she ordered. “I was just trying to even the field.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

He jumped up from his chair and retrieved two polished swords from a nearby rack. “Catch.”

He tossed her one, and she caught it by the hilt as he spun around and approached with his shoulders curved like a panther stalking prey. Zarya kicked off her shoes and gathered her skirt in one hand as she readied her stance.

He grinned before they circled, sizing one another up.

“Ready to lose again?” Zarya taunted, and Rabin grinned.

“You lost the first time,” he said, reminding her of the garden when he’d read the passages from her book.

“I was only pretending to give up,” she said.

“And in the mind plane?” Rabin asked. “Who won there?”

“You know very well I was the one on top.”

She almost winced, realizing how that sounded.

“I have no issues with that,” he said, and then he swung.

But Zarya was ready. She blocked his sword with hers, the sound echoing in the large room. She countered, bringing her blade down as he knocked it aside. Zarya danced on her toes with a grin as their swords met again. Neither was taking this entirely seriously, so Zarya chose to test him and feinted before she swiped out and nicked his bare shoulder.

A tiny trickle of blood oozed down the swell of his bicep, forcing the mood in the room to shift. He stared down at it and then at her, challenge burning in his gaze.

“Is that how it’s going to be, Spitfire?”

She smirked. “This was your idea.”

He gave her no warning as he lunged, bringing his sword down. She blocked it at the last second before they became a whirl of movement, parrying back and forth as they maneuvered around the massive ballroom.

He thrust, and she slid left, barely avoiding the attack before she spun and struck out, catching the side of his blade with a clang. She was growing warm now, sweat trickling between her breasts. That line of blood down his arm seemed to taunt her with a sense of danger and intrigue. Why did fighting him always awaken such violent desire?

She couldn’t help but admire how he moved as his muscles bunched and shifted. Normally, hidden beneath his armor, he was like watching poetry in motion. She was so absorbed in ogling him that a sharp slice of pain a moment later shocked her out of her reverie. She looked down to see he’d cut her thigh, a thin line of crimson cresting against the surface.

“You bastard,” she hissed, and then, with a roar, they clashed, circling around the room as their blades moved so fast they became a blur. Rabin lunged and circled her blade, knocking it from her hand. It went flying with a clatter, and before she could recover, he snagged her around her waist and placed a dagger at her throat.

“Where did you get a dagger?” she snapped with a sharp intake of breath.

“Should’ve told me to take off my pants.”

She huffed as his arm tightened around her. She wasn’t afraid. She was almost certain he wasn’t planning to slit her throat. In fact, finding herself trapped in his arms and helpless like this made her thighs clench as heat rushed through her limbs.

“You love drawing my blood,” he cooed in a low voice.