Page 73 of The Broken Prince

Father remained by the door. “He said he’ll be well tomorrow.”

“I don’t know…that seems quick.”

“Your brother is a strong man.”

My father never spoke of me that way. I would always be a soft, delicate flower. Meant to be admired but never touched. The second I was cut from the stem, I withered and died. Atticus was like a weed—impossible to kill.

“Put on your armor. I’d like to train with you.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise. “Now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve trained my whole life. I don’t think another session is going to make a difference—”

“Every little thing makes a difference, sweetheart.” He turned back to the door. “Get dressed, and I’ll meet you outside.”

* * *

We met on the grounds outside the castle, the sun behind the wall so we were comfortable in the shade. My father unsheathed his blade and came at me, and the second he moved, I knew this was the real deal. He didn’t hold back, but he barreled down on me like I really was his enemy.

“Shit.” I got out of the way just in time, ducking his blade before I rolled aside.

He came at me hard, his blade flying through the air, his powerful shoulders putting so much effort into his movements, like I was his enemy rather than his daughter.

All I could do was evade.

“Come on, Harlow.”

I threw up my blade and blocked his sword, but his strength was overpowering. I sidestepped it and blocked the hit I knew would come. But all I could do was avoid his blows and keep my head. I could do no damage in return.

“Hit me.” He swung again.

I rolled out of the way, grabbed a rock along the way, and then threw it at his head.

It hit him right in the temple, drawing blood.

It was enough of a pause for me to strike down my sword onto his armor, hitting it right in the groove as he’d taught me so the piece would pop off.

Now his forearm was exposed, and a small line of blood dripped down his head. But instead of looking pissed off, he looked invigorated. “Attagirl.” He came at me again, barreling down on me, facing me with the ferocity of real battle.

It made me realize how easy he’d gone on me in the past.

“Come on, sweetheart. Go for the chest plate.”

He continued to chase me down and swing his sword, moving so fast that all my energy went into staying alive and protecting my body from his powerful hits. It went on for a while, and not once did my father slow down or give me a second to breathe.

I blocked hit after hit, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike, and then the opening came. When his sword was down, I sliced my blade across his shoulder, pushing into the lock perfectly so the second piece came off.

Now his entire arm was exposed.

“Fuck yes…” I said it under my breath, too exhausted to talk any louder.

My father spun his blade around his wrist, his eyes shining with the glow of pride. “Almost there.”

“Father, I’m tired—”

“I don’t give a shit.” He slammed his fist into his chest. “Come on, Harlow.”

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