Gripping one and putting my hands up defensively, I begin to circle him, and to my absolute annoyance, he doesn’t even bother facing me. He just stands there in the center of the mat, his boots planted and his arms loose as I move around him.
“You going to prance or are you going to strike?”
Fuck him.
I punch forward, but he dips and my knife sails over his shoulder, missing him by six inches. My stomach drops as he grips my arm, yanking me forward and flipping me around the side of his body. I’m airborne for a heartbeat before I smack into the mat, my ribs taking the impact.
He cranks my arm into a submission hold and white-hot pain shoots down the limb as I cry out, dropping the dagger, but he’s not done. No, his knee is in my ribs and, though he holds my arm captive with one hand, the other plucks a dagger from its sheath and flings it toward Dain’s feet before taking another and holding it to the tender area where my jaw meets my neck.
Then he leans closer. “Taking out your enemy before the battle is really smart; I’ll give that to you,” he whispers, his warm breath brushing the shell of my ear.
Oh gods. He knows what I’ve been doing. The pain in my arm is nothing compared to the nausea churning in my stomach at the thought of what he might do with that knowledge.
“Problem is, if you aren’t testing yourself in here”—he scrapes the dagger down my neck, but there’s no warm trickle of blood, so I know he hasn’t cut me—“then you’re not going to get any better.”
“You’d rather I die, no doubt,” I fire back, the side of my face pressed into the mat. This isn’t just painful, it’s humiliating.
“And be denied the pleasure of your company?” he mocks.
“I fucking hate you.” The words are past my lips before I can shut my mouth.
“That doesn’t make you special.”
The pressure releases from my chest and arm as he gets on his feet, kicking both daggers toward Dain.
Two more. I only have two more, and now my indignation and anger far outweigh my fear.
Ignoring Xaden’s outstretched hand, I gain my feet and his lips curve into an approving smile. “She can be taught.”
“She’s a quick learner,” I retort.
“That remains to be seen.” He backs up two steps, putting a little space between us before crooking his fingers at me again.
“You’ve made your damn point,” I snap loud enough that I hear Imogen gasp.
“Trust me, I’ve barely gotten started.” He folds his arms and leans back on his heels, clearly waiting for me to move.
I don’t think. I just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees.
He goes down like a tree, the sound more than satisfying, and I pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is—they still need air. Catching his throat in the crook of my elbow, I squeeze.
Instead of going for my arms, he twists, grabbing ahold of the backs of my thighs so I lose my leverage and our bodies careen into a roll. He comes out on top.
Of course he does.
His forearm rests against my throat, not cutting off air but definitely capable of it, and his hips have mine pinned, my legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between my thighs. He’s unmovable.
Everything around us fades as my world narrows to the arrogant glint in his gaze. He’s all I can see, all I can feel.
And I can’t let him win.
I slip one of my last daggers free and go for his shoulder.
He seizes my wrist and pins it above my head.
Shit. Shit. SHIT.
Heat rushes up my neck and flames lick my cheeks as he lowers his face so his lips are only inches away from mine. I can make out every speck of gold in his onyx eyes, every bump and ridge of his scar.
Beautiful. Fucking. Asshole.
My breath catches and my body warms, the traitorous bitch. You are not attracted to toxic men, I remind myself, and yet, here I am, getting all attracted. I have been since the first second I saw him, if I feel like being honest.
He pushes his fingers into my fist, forcing it open, then sends the blade skittering across the mat before letting go of my wrist.
“Get your dagger,” he orders.
“What?” My eyes fly wide. He has me defenseless and in the kill position already.
“Get. Your. Dagger,” he repeats, taking my hand in his and retrieving the last blade I have. His fingers curl over mine, clasping the hilt.
Fire races along my skin at the feel of his fingers lacing with mine.
Toxic. Dangerous. Wants to kill you. Nope, doesn’t matter. My pulse still skitters like a teenager.
“You’re tiny.” He says it like an insult.
“Well aware.” My eyes narrow.
