Page 53 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

Fine. If he wanted distance, he’d get it. I’d play my part, too—the cold, untouchable commander who didn’t care. The woman who could break anything in her path, including her own heart.

I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the stone floor. The nearest trainees noticed me first and stiffened, their eyes darting toward Con for permission to stop.

He didn’t give it.

Of course he didn’t.

I crossed my arms, watching as he pivoted and sent one of them sprawling onto his back with a single strike. The other hesitated, clearly rethinking his next move.

When Con finally turned his head, his eyes met mine.

Gold. Calm. Impenetrable.

As if nothing had changed.

My pulse kicked, fury and something darker twisting together in my chest. “Don’t stop on my account,” I said coolly, my voice carrying across the training floor. “I’m only here to remind them what real training looks like.”

A flicker passed through his gaze—surprise, maybe, or warning—but it was gone in an instant.

The young death dealers straightened, nervous energy buzzing off them. They had no idea that the real fight in the room had nothing to do with them.

And as I stepped up to the ring, every ounce of anger in me sharpened into purpose. If Constantine Vonhof wanted to pretend nothing had happened, I’d remind him exactly who he was dealing with.

I wasn’t going to be ignored.

The clang of steel still echoed through the hall when I stepped forward, my boots striking the mat with a finality that drew every eye in the room. The two young death dealers in the ring froze where they stood—sweat-slick, wide-eyed, still panting from their last spar with Con.

“Out,” I said flatly.

They exchanged a look, clearly uncertain whether I was serious. I tilted my head toward the ring, voice cool but edged with command. “Now.”

They didn’t hesitate again. The younger of the two nearly tripped in his haste to grab his gear and retreat. The other followed, glancing once at Con for permission. Con gave a single, silent nod, and the recruits disappeared, leaving a sudden quiet in their wake.

I turned my gaze on him. “Let’s show the kids how it’s done.”

Con’s expression barely changed, but I caught the subtle shift—the narrowing of his eyes, the tightening in his jaw. “You’re mad,” he said, tone low, measured, almost warning.

“How perceptive of you.” I smiled, all teeth. “And here I thought your mind was slipping in your old age.” I paused, letting the next words cut deeper than any blade. “I guess you’re just an asshole.”

A few of the onlookers at the far edge of the training hall exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. No one interfered when I was in this kind of mood.

Con exhaled slowly, the ghost of patience leaving his face. “Cassara⁠—”

But I was already moving.

I reached for the weapon clipped to my belt and pulled it free in a single, fluid motion. The spear extended with a whispering hiss, the polished shaft catching the light as it locked into place. It felt good in my hands—solid, balanced, a familiar extension of myself.

I didn’t wait. I swung first.

The strike came fast—a sweeping arc meant to force him back rather than wound. Con caught the blow on a blunted practice sword, his body shifting with the impact instead of fighting it. His movements were maddeningly calm, efficient, as always.

I pressed harder, letting the rhythm of my anger drive me. Sparks burst where our weapons met, the metallic ring cutting through the low hum of energy in the room. I turned my grip, feinted left, then twisted the spear and drove the butt toward his ribs. He deflected, sliding back a step, his face unreadable.

He wasn’t fighting back.

Every move he made was defensive—parry, pivot, deflect. No retaliation, no counterattack.

“Fight me,” I snapped, thrusting again. The spear’s tip stopped inches from his throat.