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“I can’t do it,” Enzo blurted.
Both Fiore and Maestra Rovigatti stared at him.
“I won’t strike you,” Enzo told Fiore. “I can parry, but—I cannot attack.” He turned to Maestra Rovigatti in desperation, willing her to understand.
Maestra Rovigatti shrugged. “Then don’t attack him.”
Enzo’s brow furrowed.
“Practice your defense,” Maestra Rovigatti continued. “You already know how to attack. You need only wait for the opportune moment to strike.”
A skill which had eluded Enzo up ‘til now.
“I trust your courage will not fail you against your true opponent,” Maestra Rovigatti concluded.
No, it certainly wouldn’t. Enzo had resolved to destroy Nascimbene before he’d challenged him. Only Lucrezia’s intervention had prevented him from killing the Delfini heir. Now he would have the chance to redeem himself and punish the monster who’d brought his beloved so much agony. He would not fail his Fiore.
And from the firm gaze Fiore cast upon him now, he knew it without Enzo having to say a word.
Enzo mirrored Fiore’s stance.
“Begin,” said Maestra Rovigatti.
Enzo followed her advice and waited.
Not for long, either, as Fiore immediately lunged for him.
Enzo saw at once what Maestra Rovigatti had meant about the unpredictability of an untrained fencer. He parried the attack, of course, but it left him off-center and struggling to make sense of it.
And rather than any recognizable or reasonable counter-parry, Fiore just wrenched his sword free and hacked at him again.
Relentless. Absurd. No pattern save bloodthirsty violence. No possible way to anticipate where the following blow might fall. Openings for counter-attacks abounded, if Enzo could bring himself to make use of them, but as matters stood he was wholly preoccupied with blocking each strike as it occurred. Not just stabs, as the rapier was designed for, but slashes and chops—including one overhead strike wherein Fiore left his whole front open yet Enzo could do nothing about it except stare, aghast, at his sheer audacity, and bring up his own sword almost as an afterthought to block the blade from splitting his skull. Then—
Enzo staggered back as Fiore’s point jabbed him in the ribs, just over his heart.
“There,” said Maestra Rovigatti. “He has killed you.”
Enzo could think of no hand he’d rather die by.
Fiore dropt his sword to his side. Gone was the ferocious fury that’d driven the blow. Now his gaze held only concern. “Are you all right?"
Enzo couldn’t answer him straight off. His voice failed him. He’d always enjoyed crossing blades with other gentlemen. He’d fallen for Orazio at the fencing club, after all. But this was something else. Something more. There was true purpose behind Fiore’s swordplay. Not mere formality. Not showing off skill. Just pure, raw aggression. The desperate attack of a cornered beast that would not surrender its life without claiming flesh and blood in return. All of Enzo’s blood, meanwhile, had flown straight down to pulse betwixt his thighs.
“Enzo?” Fiore closed the stride between them and raised his hand to cradle his face.
The touch drew Enzo out of his daze. He smiled and nodded. All the while his mind whirled. Perhaps once the duel was over and done with—or, if he were lucky, sooner than that—he might persuade Fiore to bring the blade into the bedchamber.
“Again, gentlemen?” said Maestra Rovigatti.
Enzo nodded.
Fiore hesitated. His gaze flicked from Enzo’s eyes to the bruise blooming over his heart. Then he leapt up and caught his mouth in a tender kiss.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Fiore whispered against his lips when they parted.
Enzo smiled and nodded again. “You’re only making me stronger.”
Fiore’s anxious, furrowed brow melted away as a beaming grin overtook his face. He spun ‘round and returned to his starting position with a capering skip.
