Page 76 of Fallen Star

“Your form is sloppy,” Riven interrupts my thoughts, pulling his sword out of his weapons belt and examining the blade. “You’re going to learn how to use this.”

Tension crackles between us as we hold each other’s gazes, sending more memories of last night flashing through my mind.

The sword he’s offering isn’t the one I want to be practicing with right now.

But he moves closer to me, holding it out. “Take it.”

I eye the weapon warily. “I have my dagger.”

“A dagger won’t save you against someone with superior reach.”

“Fine,” I say, and when I grasp the hilt, a chill races up my arm, like the blade itself is made of winter.

“Balance your grip.” He moves to stand behind me, his hands covering mine, adjusting my fingers on the hilt.

His closeness sends more electricity rushing through me than the sword, and I’m suddenly very aware of his breath against my ear.

“Keep your stance wide,” he continues. “Center your weight.”

I try to focus on his words and on his hand guiding mine, but it’s impossible with him so close. “Like this?” I manage, and from the way he pulls me closer, I know he has similar things on his mind that I do.

“Better,” he says. “Now, move with me.”

He guides me through basic forms—how to strike, how to parry, and how to use my opponent’s momentum against them. His touch is professional, but it’s impossible to forget how those same hands felt on my skin just hours ago.

“Focus,” he says sharply when I miss a block. “Your enemy won’t be distracted by whatever’s going through your mind right now.”

“I’m focused.” I hold his gaze, but from his smirk, we both know I’m lying.

Well, I’m notreallylying. Because Iamfocused.

On him.

“Prove it.” He draws my dagger—which he’s been using in lieu of his sword—and comes at me with a speed that makes me stumble back.

I barely get his sword up in time to block.

The clash of metal-on-metal rings through the cave, and my arms shake from the impact.

“Better,” he says. “But your footwork is sloppy. Again.”

We continue like that for hours. And even though my supernatural healing is quick, I still feel every blow. Every break.

Finally, I catch him along his bicep with the edge of the blade.

The cut isn’t deep—his reflexes are too good for that—but blood wells up, bright red against his skin.

The scent hits me like a storm.

Rich. Intoxicating. Everything I’ve known I’d need since my last feed.

He moves toward me, worried, as ifI’mthe injured one and not him.

“Don’t.” I stumble back, dropping his sword with a clatter. “Don’t touch me.”

Want pulses through me—not desire, but hunger. Pure, primal need that makes my fangs ache to descend.

I will not feed on him,I tell myself.I will not feed on him. I will not feed on him.

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