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"He would be dead before he could lay a hand on you," Tristan says, and I'm startled by the sudden force behind his words as something brutal hardens his amber eyes.
I believe him.
There's a warmth pooling somewhere deep within me, and I feel my cheeks flush as he stares at me, unwavering and unyielding.
I sag slightly when he finally looks away.
"Amara is right, though," he says, shifting the subject. "Most of your opponents will be physically stronger. So, you have to be smarter and faster. Let's see what you can do."
We start with the basics, going over the proper posture and showing me how to use my hands to protect my face. I mimic his stance, feeling awkward and uncoordinated in contrast to his graceful movements, an effect I've become accustomed to after watching Amara train with me. Like Amara, Tristan is patient, repeating the moves until I get them right.
Then it's time to put what I've learned to practice. I feel my heart rate quicken as we face each other to spar.
"Go on, little flower," he tells me, a hint of teasing creeping into his voice. "Hit me."
I lunge forward with a punch, and he effortlessly dodges it.
"Again."
He shows me how to block his attacks, using my arms to deflect his punches and kicks. In the back of my mind, I can almost hear Amara's words guiding me.
'Breathe. You are a feather fighting a brick. You do not bend or break. Flow.'
Tristan throws a punch, and I duck underneath it. I feel a rush of excitement as we circle each other, and I spin around and deliver a swift kick to Tristan's side. He barely stumbles back, but surprise flashes across his eyes, along with a glint of pride.
"Good."
We continue to spar, and I'm beginning to understand what Amara meant by using my small size to my advantage. He's strong and fast, and I know he's taking it easy on me. But thanks to Amara's lessons, I'm holding my ground—or rather, darting around it.
It's a rush, unlike anything I've ever experienced before. As we move around the mat, our heat begins to build between us, and I have to focus to avoid glancing at the glistening sweat on his skin. He moves, and I counter, and it's a strange sort of dance that makes my insides tight and tingling.
This close, it's impossible not to notice the way his body moves in response to mine. The way his biceps bulge as he throws a punch, the way his abs ripple as he twists his torso, muscles tightening and shifting beneath his skin. I feel a flutter in the pit of my stomach and nearly lose my footing as I throw a wide punch that he easily sidesteps.
"Easy," he breathes. "Use your momentum with intention." He motions for me to come towards him, and I approach him warily, unsure of what he's going to do next. "Let's try something a little different."
He suddenly lunges towards me, and I try to block him with my arms, but he easily pushes me down, and we tumble onto the mat. Before I can gather my bearings, he has me pinned down beneath him, his weight trapping me under his body.
"You good?" he asks quickly, and I nod, surprised by the pang of competitive frustration that stings my pride at being taken down so easily.
Pride.
Since when do I have that?
"Good," Tristan says with a grin before I can ponder the thought any further. "Now get me off you."
I struggle to move, feeling his weight bearing down on me.
"We're not arm wrestling, little flower. You're trying to use sheer force, and it won't work."
That's an understatement. In a contest of strength, he could snap me like a twig.
He shifts over me, tightening his grip on my wrist slightly, not enough that it's painful, but enough to make it clear that I'm not going to escape.
Again, I hear Amara's instructions in the back of my head: 'When you can't use your fists, use your head. Literally or metaphorically.'
As if echoing her coaching, Tristan says, "With your back against the ground, you don't have to worry about balance. You have a strong foundation. Use it."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, his words reaching deep within me.
