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“Cool,” she says. The word throws me off, coming across strangely on my translator; I’ve never heard the adjective spoken that way. “In that case—come at me.”
I circle her, and she matches me as we walk in a ring around each other. I size her up all the while, my eyes dragging from the crown of her head to her bare feet. Perhaps it’s the influence of alcohol, but I want to touch her long, curly hair…
“Your curls,” I say, glancing at them. “Off limits?”
“Hm…” she says. “Let’s keep it fun and say no. You’ll need all the handicaps you can get.”
“Alright,” I say. “Then you can go for my fringe and…junk, as you say.”
“That’s a mistake you don’t want to make,” Taraven calls out from behind me.
I turn around to correct him.
Turning around is my second mistake.
Because Frankie is right in front of me in seconds, her hand slicing toward my fringe quickly enough that I almost don’t catch her. I sense the air move before she hits me, though, grabbing hold of her wrist and bending it behind her. She twirls to escape, her hair smacking me in the face, and I stumble back as I try to get my bearings.
“Focus on me, Malix,” she says, her voice low and throaty.
Stars. I don’t think I could focus on anything else.
We fall into a dance, exchanging parries as we learn the other’s fighting style. I can tell she’s had the benefit of training against a Lyran—Reza, if I had to guess, and he’s one of the finest warriors we’ve ever seen on my planet. The female who trained her is known for her ability to take out Lyran troops, considered a hero in Logos for her role in the Lyran Civil War.
I can see that influence in the way Frankie moves, along with a grace I didn’t expect. Her movements are fluid, sinuous, her body twirling out of my reach every time I try to strike her. Soon, I’m panting and leaning on my knees, asking for a breather as we stand at an impasse.
Frankie goes back to the desk and slams another glass of alcohol.
I hope it will make her sloppy, even if there seems to be little chance of that.
Ireallywant to win.
“Where did you train?” I ask. “I’ve never seen a combat style like this.”
She laughs. “Is that a compliment?”
“It is,” I say. “And I’m curious.”
“Hm…or are you just trying to get human secrets out of me?” she asks. “Guess it couldn’t hurt. I was recruited to ICO right out of boot camp, and I studied about ten different forms of martial arts under my boss, Agent Nguyen. And before that, I studiedbaal-ay.”
“Baal-ay?” I ask, frowning.
“It’s a form of dancing,” she says. “It requires a lot of strength, a lot of stamina, and a lot of…flexibility.”
She cocks her eyebrow, her lips curving in a smile. My flesh burns at the way she looks at me, like there’s fire in her eyes. I roll my neck and begin to unbutton my tunic, revealing my scaled chest and abdomen. Her eyes follow the movement of my hands, her smile growing—so I keep going.
This is uncharacteristic of me—I prefer to be strong, disciplined, proper—but I’ve never felt so warm.
And perhaps I should live a little, as Reza suggested.
I peel my tunic off the rest of the way and toss it to the floor, then roll my shoulders. I know that I am objectively impressive, and I see the reaction play out on Frankie’s face, pleasure mixed with deep desire. Taraven shifts somewhere off to my left, and his eyes have darkened to a vivid magenta.
“Another round?” Frankie asks. “We’re still at a stalemate, and I intend on winning.”
I snap my gaze back to her.
“Let’s go.”
We resume, weaving around each other and exchanging blows. She catches me hard in the stomach, then goes again for my fringe—and this time, she hits. Pain sears through me from my neck to my shoulder, and I growl at the intrusion.
