Page 69 of Dark Fate

"Fuck,baby," I groan as I appraise her form in the makeshift tent. She's a fucking masterpiece, the tight leather hugging her curves in all the right places. She catches me staring and rolls her eyes with playful exasperation.

"Yeah, this getup is all thanks toAxilyaand her wicked sense of what passes for battle attire," she quips, implying thatAxilya's idea of gearing up for a confrontation includes a rather... unique sartorial twist.

Eriktries to stifle a chuckle, but it's damn clearDani's fiery spirit amuses him as she goes off about her clothes. "Little Huntress, you might as well get used to it."

I stand up and stride toward her with determination, unable to resist any longer. "Goddamn,Angel, you're stunning," I growl before giving her ass a hard smack. The noise reverberates through the quiet tent, causing her to let out a surprised yelp.

"Well, at least someone appreciates the vibe," she retorts playfully as I eye her hungrily.

"I wouldn't mind seeing you wear this all the time," I admit.

"Why does that not surprise me?" she shoots back, her quip laced with dry humor and resigned expectation.

That smirk's still playing on her lips, telling me that even if she isn't sold on the getup or the moment, she knows it turns me the fuck on, and that knowledge is power in her hands.

"Sorry for butting in," she starts, "but we were about to dine and thought maybe you boys would want to tag along."

Hell, 'dining' takes on a new meaning, far from whatever's served. But I pocket those dirty ideas for now and seize two generous handfuls of her plump ass, hoisting her up.

She lets out another squeal, clinging onto me for dear life like a koala.

I start moving us out of the tent, "Time to eat – but you're the main course later," I growl with a wink.

Danica

29

Rhyland saunters into the clearing, that wolfish grin already plastered on his face like a billboard advertising his cocky confidence. "Ready to get your cute little ass kicked again?" he taunts, his voice dripping with playful arrogance.

I roll my eyes but can't help mirroring his smirk, the thrill of the challenge already coursing through my veins. Twirling my daggers with a flourish that's half skill, half showmanship, I sass back, "Keep dreaming, Nordi-licious. I'm so gonna wipe that smug look off your face."

We've been going head-to-head all week, sparring and honing our combat skills to a razor's edge while awaiting that fateful summons from the Sun Court. And now, with the arrival of that golden envelope at dawn, the stage is set for today's battle—a final test of our mettle before we embark on the next leg of our journey.

Keeping the crown concealed is second nature now, the weight of it a constant presence in the back of my mind. I've also woven it into my hair on days I want to show it off. The glimmering strands plaited into some badass warrior braids that make me feel like a goddamn Valkyrie. This power has melded into my very being, a part of me as much as my own heartbeat.

Rhyland circles me, his eyes roaming over the daggers, spinning through my grip with a predatory gleam. "Those little knives won't save you, sweetheart," he taunts, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

"We'll see about that, won't we?" I pivot on the balls of my feet, mirroring his predatory movements with a grace born of hours of practice and a healthy dose of adrenaline.

The forest seems to hold its breath as we stalk each other, the air thick with tension and anticipation. My pulse thrums with the intoxicating fusion of fear and excitement that only Rhyland can inspire, a heady cocktail that makes me feel alive in ways I never knew possible.

He strikes first, his sword cutting through the air with blinding speed. But I'm ready for him, deflecting the blow with an upraised dagger. The clang of impact reverberates through my bones like a bell.

"Too slow, baby," Rhyland rumbles, grinning as he unleashes a furious combination—jab, cross, hook—that would have laid me out flat a week ago.

But I'm not the same girl I was then. I weave away from his blows like a dancer, his knuckles hissing past my cheek with a whisper of displaced air. Twisting at the last second, I rake my blade toward his ribs, seeking to slip past his guard and score a hit.

But he's already clear, the deadly arc of my dagger finding only empty space. Damn, his lightning reflexes.

"Gonna have to try harder than that," he tsks, circling again with that damn sexy swagger of his that makes me want to kiss him and kick his ass in equal measure.

Fine, if he wants to play, then play we shall.

I charge with a feral yell, my daggers whirling in a blur of silver death. Rhyland backpedals, deflecting each lethal slice with his lightning reflexes, his own blade a streak of gleaming steel in the dappled sunlight. Our blades clash and part, the staccato rhythm of combat echoing through the trees like a savage symphony.

Then Rhyland overcommits on a swipe, exposing his flank for a single, precious breath. I seize the moment and drive my heel toward his exposed ribs, putting every ounce of strength and speed into the blow.

Rhyland twists away, but not quite far enough—I feel the solid thunk of impact against his side, a glancing blow that nonetheless sends a thrill of satisfaction through me.

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