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It’s mostly a mirror image of my own bedchamber, but his sheets are midnight silk layered with soft furs, and the furniture is carved from a darker wood.

I let my gaze wander, absorbing the small items that belong to him. A neatly folded cloak draped over the back of a chair. A book left open on the nightstand.

But it’s the weapons that seize my attention.

One wall is lined with them—swords, daggers, poleaxes, each one gleaming as if it’s been meticulously cared for. The sight of them sends a thrill through me, my fingers itching to reach out and test their weight.

“Can I pick whichever I like?” I ask.

He shrugs, leaning against the footpost of his bed. “I wouldn’t want you to claim I didn’t give you a fair chance.”

I roll my eyes but step closer, my gaze sweeping over the collection. My fingers hover over a slender sword with a curved blade, but then my attention shifts to a pair of daggers with dark leather hilts that seem to drink the light, their edges whispering promises of precision and speed.

I settle on the daggers, and Lyxander selects a sword with an inlaid silver hilt. Weapons chosen, we leave his chamber and descend the winding stairwell, then spill out of the kitchen door onto the mountainside.

Ares is stretched out on a flat rock nearby, his massive form soaking in the sunlight. At the sound of the door opening, his ears twitch, and he lifts his head, his golden eyes narrowing on us. He chuffs, a low, rumbling sound, then lies back down.

Lyxander shakes his head. “At least someone’s enjoying the morning.”

I twirl one of the daggers in my hand. “I don’t know. I think mine is about to be much more enjoyable.”

His eyes gleam with a challenge. “All right then, Stormwind. Show me what you’re made of.”

I don’t wait for him to make the first move. I dart forward, light on my feet, the snow crunching softly beneath my boots. He meets me head-on, his sword flashing as it catches the sunlight.

The clash of steel rings out as I deflect his strike with one dagger and aim the other at his side. He twists away and counters with a quick slash that forces me to leap back.

I dart around him, my daggers a blur as I test his defenses, looking for an opening. We continue to trade blows, the rhythm of our movements like a dance—strike, parry, dodge, counter. The snow crunches beneath our boots, and the cold air burns in my lungs, but I keep my focus entirely on him. On the way his sword arcs through the air, on the sharp gleam in his eyes as he matches me move for move.

“You’re holding back,” I taunt.

His eyes narrow, and he lunges, forcing me to block his strike with both daggers. The impact reverberates up my arms, but I hold my ground, our faces inches apart.

“So are you.”

I shove him, my heart pounding, and circle him, the wind stirring around us. He’s watching me closely now, his gaze sharp, and I can’t help the thrill that courses through me.

I let the wind gather at my back, coaxing it to swirl around me, and dart forward again. This time, I use the wind to nudge him off balance.

He stumbles but recovers quickly to parry my strike.

“There she is.” His canines flash in a sharp grin.

He lunges again, but I send a gust of wind whipping toward him.

The snow at his feet swirls up in a flurry, and he raises an arm to shield his face.

I dart forward, tackling him to the ground. The impact sends a shock through me, but I straddle him, pinning him down, and press one of my daggers to his throat.

His sword lies forgotten in the snow beside us, and his hands come up, palms open in mock surrender.

“Well,” he says, his voice deep like the rumble of distant thunder, “of all the ways I’ve been restrained before, this would have to be my favorite.”

The words ripple through me, warm and dangerous, and I can’t tell if it’s the teasing lilt in his tone or the way his voice seems to curl through my belly.

I should laugh. I should roll my eyes, shove him into the snow, and let the moment pass.

Instead, I stay where I am, my breath shallow, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs. The feel of him beneath me, the heat of his body seeping through the layers of clothing, the way his gaze holds mine—it’s too much, and yet not enough.