Page 33 of She Who Was Severed

I move first.

My footwork’s off, but my instincts aren’t. I jab, feint left, twist low to avoid his sweep. He’s fast—faster than I remember—but I’ve been fighting ghosts for days. He’s solid. Predictable.

We trade blows. Elbow, dodge, palm block. I catch his forearm. He breaks my grip. Our feet scrape the ash-stone floor, dust rising around us like smoke from an old pyre.

“Still favor your right,” he pants.

“Still talk too much.”

He grins.

Then he lunges.

I twist, but not fast enough. He catches my side, and pain flares bright under the bruises. I hiss, fall back. He doesn’t press. He waits.

“You done?”

I charge.

We hit the floor together. His back slams into cracked tile, mine lands on top of him. I straddle his hips, knees pressed to stone, palms braced on his chest. Sweat slicks our skin.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

His chest rises beneath my hands. The chain pulses low and warm at my wrist.

“You’re stronger,” he murmurs.

“So are you.”

I shift my weight just enough to notice the line of his thigh between mine. Just enough for both of us to notice what that does to him.

His jaw clenches. His breath catches. My body goes still. He lifts a hand—slow, slow—trails his fingers over my cheek. I should flinch. Should roll off. Should run.

I don’t.

His hand curls around the back of my neck. His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw.

His mouth finds mine.

It isn’t sweet. It’s salt and bruises and flame.

I kiss him like I want to punish him for everything he didn’t do. He kisses me like he wants to offer penance for everything he couldn’t.

We burn.

He flips me, and my back hits the stone. The air rushes out of me. He braces above me, one knee between my legs, one hand at my waist.

The chain coils. Not tight. Not angry. Just… aware.

“Freya.”

I drag him down.

Clothes go slow. Me first—pulling my shift over my head, letting it fall without ceremony. He watches like it’s sacred. Like I’m the spell and he’s just trying to learn the words before I disappear.

He drops to his knees like he’s done it before—but not for this. Not for me.