Page 26 of A Kingdom of Broken Bonds

I snort. “Stand a chance? I think there is something wrong with your eyes, prince.”

I am one of the best fighters in our land, my father ensured I had the best trainers available. My lessons were split between learning about court and what was expected of me and fighting lessons. These sessions went way past just self-defence, and I learned to love the burn of my muscles as I trained.

“There is nothing wrong with my vision.” His expression is serious now, all traces of humour gone. “You are fast, and your aim is accurate, but training against imaginary foes is not the way to get a true indication of a fighter’s worth.”

His comment stings, but I know he’s right.

Slinging my bow over my shoulder, I stalk towards the targets to retrieve my arrows, not wanting him to see the frustration burning in my eyes.

“I make the most of what I have,” I call back to him, knowing he can hear me despite the distance. “No one will train with me for fear of hurting me.”

A curse of being one of the brides. I am tiptoed around by most, fearing that I will get hurt and be unable to fulfil my part of the prophecy. In more recent years, my training has consisted of fighting against targets or soldiers far below my skill level. It isn’t ideal, and I have fought with my trainers over this many times, but the answer is always the same.

“Then they do you a disservice.” He starts to unbutton his jacket, and I watch him with raised brows. While I don’t want to agree with him, I have been held back, and I know I can do more.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Cocking my head to one side, I watch him roll up the sleeves of his shirt, admiring his thick, muscular arms.

“I’ll spar with you,” he replies.

Choking out a laugh, I shake my head with disbelief. “You have to be joking.”

He wants to spar. Here, in front of everyone. A fae prince. Their skills with a sword are legendary, but I am pretty sure I can hold my own against him. Princes don’t get their hands dirty though, so I can’t quite work out why he’s doing this.

His fingers pause in rolling his sleeves so he can look up at me, his expression flat. “Do I look like I jest?”

No, he doesn’t. In fact, he looks deadly serious. Shaking his arms out and rolling his shoulders, he unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt to allow for more movement. Striding over to the weapons rack, he selects a sword, testing its weight and taking a few practice swings.

Excitement courses through me at the thought of sparring with him, where I can prove my skills and cut him down a few pegs—not to mention being able to fight against someone who isn’t going to take it easy on me.

I left my sword in my room, not thinking I was going to need it, so I stride over to the weapons rack, ignoring how close that puts our bodies. His stare is hot on my skin as I examine the swords. None of them are as good as my blade, but they will do. Testing the grip on one, I go through a quick sword drill, confirming that this blade is acceptable for the purpose.

Without a word, I stride past him and into the practise ring, his smug smirk burning my pride. I will soon wipe it from his lips. He follows me, only stepping back when we reach the centre of the ring and take our places opposite each other.

“First to land a death blow wins the match.”

Nodding my agreement, I surge across the ring, my steps kicking up bits of sand and grit in my wake. Speed is one of my strengths, so I’m going to take full advantage of that, hoping to catch him off guard.

He seems to be expecting this, though, and dodges to the left, slashing his sword down towards my exposed back as I burst past him. Throwing myself into a roll, I feel the air move above me as I narrowly avoid getting cut. He might hold back a death blow, but he is clearly in this to win and doesn’t mind wounding me in the process.

Good, I don’t want him to go easy on me. When I win, I want it to be because of my own strength and skill.

Back on my feet, I whirl and raise my sword just in time to block another killing blow, the clang of metal ringing out around us. Feinting left, I duck to my right and swing towards his exposed side with a burst of vampire speed. I’m too fast for the eye to track, and I’m pretty confident that I’m about to win. However, his sword meets mine, and he manages to shove me backward. I stumble for a second but quickly regain my balance. He’s on top of me though, taking advantage of my brief unsteady steps. He pummels me with blow after blow, moving impossibly fast, and I’m only just able to stop them from landing on me.

Disbelief runs through me. How is he so good and so fast? Are all of the fae this fast, or is it just Finnik? I might not win this fight. That thought causes a wave of anxiety and annoyance. If I start thinking like that then I’ve already lost.

Baring my teeth, I shove him back and manage to catch his arm with my blade. It’s a shallow cut, barely anything really, but my instincts instantly take over. Whether or not I want to, I have no choice as I drop my sword and grab his arm, the scent of his blood driving me wild. In the blink of an eye, I’ve gone from fighting to holding his arm with a vicelike grip, rubbing my cheek against his skin like a house cat. Blood trickles down, and I press my tongue against his arm and lick along the path, groaning at his taste.

I have never tasted anything like it. I feel euphoric, strengthened in a way I never knew was possible. It’s addictive, and I want to sink my teeth in and encourage the blood to flow.

The cool metal of a blade presses against my throat, not enough to pierce the skin, but enough to get my attention. My mind finally wins the battle against my instincts, and I remember that I was in the middle of a fight. Shit.

“I win.” His voice sounds tight, and I’m gratified to hear he’s breathless. Good, I might not have won, but I made him work for the victory.

I don’t blame him for the sudden tension in his body. He has a vampire ready to suck his blood without permission. Had I been one of the changed, then I might not have been able to hold back. As it was, the only reason I didn’t bite him was because of the sword pressed against my jugular.

Releasing his arm, I take a step back, licking my lips and savouring every last morsel of his blood. I’m already missing it, but I tightly grab those urges and push them deep down within myself. With a deep breath, I meet his gaze, not sure what is going to greet me. He’s probably furious at me for not having better control over myself. However, when my eyes meet his, I am surprised to see confusion looking back at me.

At first, I thought he tensed up because of what I was doing, but examining his expression and body language, I wonder if it is actually because he enjoyed it. A vampire’s bite is euphoric. However, I only licked the blood that escaped the cut, no matter how much I had wanted to lock my lips around the wound, so he wouldn’t have experienced that euphoria.

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