Page 170 of Wings of Destruction

I take a step toward her, and Astrid flows with me, keeping a pace ahead so there is no accidental touching.

Concern pricks my skin.

“Why does it matter?” I ask.

“The deal is simple.” She steps up to me and my mouth opens in automatic protest. “You land a hit on me, and I’ll make sure you stay. You only get one.”

She tips her chin, indicating a spot.

“You land a hit, then you’ve proved you have earned staying here.”

“I don’t want to stay,” I tell her again. “I want out.”

“Don’t insult me,” she breathes.

Her gaze lights with determination and I double down.

“This place is not what I thought it would be. If staying involves showing my neck to General Ryson, then I don’t want it, no matter what.” My voice stays firm to banish my own doubts.

“You want it so bad you can taste it.” Astrid grabs the neck of my dress and hauls me to her so quickly I barely have time for the surprised gasp to make it past my teeth.

She smiles sardonically. “I’ll make sure you get to graduation, and I’ll make sure you know the truth. One hit. You’ll stay, because you know this is where you belong.”

It’s an olive branch disguised as a sword. Has the entire day led up to this moment? Just the two of us, together in Kieran’s private sparring gym?

My gaze flickers over her shoulder.

“You’re not making it out the door,” Astrid continues conversationally. “Like I said. There is one way for you to leave and it’s through me.”

Attacking Astrid is the last thing I want to do. The bottom drops out from under me even as the room constricts, in the inexplicable way that rooms in this place do, until I feel the individual grains of the rafters against my skin.

She never answered my question—why she’s doing this. She won’t, either.

“I’ll give you a second to compose yourself.”

She goes through the motions of kicking off her boots. The laces are already loose enough for her to slide off. She peels off her socks, methodically, the right and then the left and sets them in a neat pile.

There is something entirely disconcerting about the unhurried way she moves. If she wants to get me unnerved, then she’s accomplished her goal.

Nothing without reason.

None of her movements are wasted. I can train for years and not have half of her stillness. She’s a warrior down to her bones.

What am I?

When Astrid rises, she nimbly undoes the knots keeping her leather braces in place over her forearms. The left, then the right.

She places the braces neatly at the edge of the mat and the leather armor over her chest follows. When she finishes undressing, she stands in front of me in a loose shirt and trousers, her hair done in multiple braids and held back from her face by another thin strip of leather.

“Don’t make it easy on my account.” I strive for the same kind of neutrality and absolutely fall short.

The pain from Evie is already distant. Present, but secondary to the weird fluttering in my chest. Bumps erupt along my chest and the side of my arms.

Astrid is eyeing me the way I once saw a pit viper stare at a baby bird, fallen too soon from the nest. An easy meal hardly worth the effort but delicious nonetheless.

Rattled, I take my place in front of her on the mat, drawing a steadying breath into my lungs.

“One hit,” she reminds me.