Page 47 of A Thief Among Fae

“What is it?” I ask.

He makes a show of looking confused, his subtle smirk belying it. “It?”

“Your magic. Unless you want to surprise me.”

His smirk vanishes. A cold, impassive expression clicks into place. “You wouldn’t survive it.”

My mouth falls open. I remember when I woke and saw that he tied himself to a chair. He warned me that it was a precaution. “Isn’t showing me your Gift the point of this?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’ll count down,” Finnian says, standing to the side of the mat. The lynx’s tail lashes like she’s curious. “Go on one. Three, two, one!”

Desmond stands with his arms crossed, feet planted on the mat. Guess it’s my move first.

I jab, aiming for his jaw. He pivots, side-stepping me. He lands a restrained punch against my unguarded waist before I have a chance to block. Then he retreats, both hands now fisted and ready. The hit stung, but it would’ve been a hell of a lot worse if he put his full power behind it.

Shifting my feet to face him, I exhale and prepare to strike again.

He moves first. Not with a lurch, but with the balance of a ripple through water. One fist hooks my shoulder, and the other slams into my ribs before I register how close he is. The impact steals my breath. I stumble back, my arms instinctively coming up to defend.

He doesn’t press the attack, instead giving me a vital second to recover. A smile pulls at his lips like he’s waiting to see if I’ll cede to him. It ignites something reckless in me. I unsheathe my dagger and clench it tight.

Desmond moves in. This time I’m ready. My blade sweeps and⁠—

He grips my forearm with unrelenting strength, stopping my attack. His foot collides with my shin as he shoves me onto the mat.

I throw the blade so I don’t cut myself as my shoulder collides with the mat. I roll just in time to see Desmond lunge for my dagger. My magic thrusts it out of his reach, and it zips into my hand.

He raises a telling brow. He wants me to fight with my Gift?

I jump onto my feet and levitate the dagger behind him. He swerves to grab it, but I punch to distract him. He effortlessly blocks my hit and lands one of his own.

The dagger slashes at his head. He jerks away, but a severed strand of his dark hair floats in the air.

Desmond catches it, then tilts his head at me, slow and assessing. If he hadn’t dodged, I would’ve nicked his ear. “You don’t hold back,” he muses.

“If I held back, I wouldn’t have survived every barrow to live today. And you said I won’t feel your pain.”

“Supposedly.” His amused smile looks genuine, but a foreign perturbation presses into me. I know the feeling is his, the same way I know my own pulse. I just know. “Still, don’t strike to kill,” he says as he taps the inked crescent on his wrist.

“Shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you taking lives, Prince of Death?” I taunt him.

His eyes flare wide, apparently startled by the title. He starts to speak, and I use that distraction to surge at him. His reaction is delayed, but his forearm still blocks my punch. Even distracted, he moves too quickly.

“You’re going easy on her,” Finnian complains.

“How will we know what she’s made of if I knock her on her ass immediately?” he counters.

He’s holding back? I frown as we circle each other. I’ll show him.

I untether another dagger from the weapons rack and sneak it behind him. Finnian chuckles.

Damn it. It’s enough to signal Desmond. He pivots away from my blades, so I lunge after him. He meets me head-on, blocking every hit.

He punches. When I dodge, I realize he let me. His other hand jabs my stomach, and I suck in an involuntary gasp.

But he pulls back and gives me time to steady myself—overconfident ass. That was a mistake. I plant his boots to the training mat with my magic. For a fraction of a second, he’s pinned. That’s all the opening I need.