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He took the opening to knock my sword out of my hand. “How many times have I told you to wear gloves?”
I rolled out of the way and grabbed my sword in the process, dodging his attacks with my speed. I kicked him in the shin then hit my sword hard down on his, forcing it toward the earth so I could punch him in the face.
His head turned with the blow, but it was back in a second, pride in his eyes. He came at me harder than ever before, moving with a speed I could barely challenge. It required me to be on the defensive because he was too powerful. He pushed me to the brink, forced me to ignore the stitch in my side and keep going. All I could do was block his hits as I frantically sought an opening to do some damage.
I caught his sword the way he taught me and forced it to spin, forced it to leave his fingers so it would fly across the field.
But he didn’t stop to stare at me with pride. He came at me with his fists, grabbed me by the wrist to get the sword out of my hands.
I twisted out of his hold just the way he’d taught me and kicked him.
He continued to come at me, his hand flying for my neck because he never went easy on me, not even as his daughter.
I threw my elbow down on his arm and kicked him at the same time.
It was enough to make him falter back a few steps.
I sprinted, knowing this was the only opening I would get. I jumped on him and pushed the steel of my blade against his neck. I panted hard because I was fucking exhausted. My muscles screamed for respite.
He lay there with the sword against him, looking at me with unmistakable pride. Then a gentle smile moved on to his lips. “Attagirl.”
I dropped my sword and sat on the grass, taking a moment to catch my breath.
He sat upright and rested his arms on his knees, facing the other way. “You’re a better soldier than most of my men.”
“Does that mean I’ll fight in the next war? If there’s another one.”
“There will be another one. There always is. But no.”
“No?” I asked in surprise. “Then why have you been training me since I could walk?”
“Because I won’t always be around to protect you, Harlow.”
My heart tightened as if squeezed by a fist. “Don’t say things like that.”
“And I don’t want you to depend on a man for protection either.”
“Well, I definitely don’t.”
“Always be prepared.”
“Father, you’re a revered king. You have no enemies.”
“Your enemies won’t make themselves known until the most opportune time for them.” He stared across the distance, his warm pride gone and replaced by a callous coldness. “And the best way to gain my cooperation is through you and Atticus. You must always be prepared.”
I knew my father was paranoid for a reason. His father had been murdered and his mother raped right before his eyes. Everything that belonged to his family was taken away—because they hadn’t expected it. “Well, no one can touch me. You’ve seen to that, Father.”
“I hope so, sweetheart.”
* * *
I sat at my vanity and wiped the makeup from my face with the warm towel the maids brought when they provided turn-down service. Then I brushed my long hair, gently getting the tangles out. Quiet moments like these were the hardest, because I was suffocated by my own thoughts, by the pain in my heart.
Knock. Knock. Knock. The gentle tapping struck my door.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and I could see my mother’s reflection in my mirror. Makeup was gone from her face too, and she wore her robe over her nightdress. Her long hair was down over one shoulder, and seeing both of our reflections in the mirror reminded me of the similarities in our appearances. When her eyes met mine, she gave a small smile. “Got a minute?”
