Page 27 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Her chin rises slightly. “A little. My mother hired a tutor.”

“Right. Fancy tutor from the fancy manor.” I roll my shoulders, grip my sword, and point it at her. “Form’s good if you want to look impressive at a tournament. But it’ll get you killed out here.”

Aria’s grip tightens on the dagger. “What am I supposed to do instead?”

I smirk. “Cheat.”

Her eyes widen into pretty earthy spheres. “Cheat?”

“Yes, Mouse. If you want to live, fight dirty. Go for soft parts. Throw dirt in their eyes. Use their weight against them.” I step back and gesture to the open space. “Come on. Let me show you.”

She hesitates only a moment before stepping into the clearing. Her fingers tighten around the hilt before she finally draws the dagger, the blade whispering free of its sheath.

Technically, she’s holding it correctly—blade angled, grip firm—but I can tell in an instant that it won’t do in a fight. There’s hesitation in the way she stands, too upright, too careful. She holds the weapon like an expensive trinket rather than an extension of herself, like someone who’sseenviolence but never truly taken part in it.

I roll my shoulders, adjusting my stance. “Ready?” I ask.

She gives me a small look of skepticism, like she’s already doubting whatever lesson I’m about to give, but still, she trusts me enough to say, “Ready.”

I swing first, a slow, telegraphed arc she easily dodges. “Good,” I say. “But don’t move backward. That’s what they expect. Go sideways, and use your blade.”

We go again. She sidesteps this time, her dagger flashing up to deflect my blade. The metallic clang echoes through the trees, sharp and clean. I shift my stance slightly, weight distributed, watching how she resets hers.

“Better,” I murmur, lips twitching at the corner.

She’s quicker than I expected. Her footwork’s neat—measured, deliberate—but too careful. She’s thinking too much, waiting for my next move instead of trusting her instincts. I can see it in the way her eyes flick from my shoulders to my hands, reading my posture like a book.

So I give her something to read.

I press harder, tightening the rhythm of my strikes. One, two, three—sharp angles meant to drive her back. She parries them all, blade to blade, her breaths coming quicker now. There’s a slight wobble in her stance, the kind that comes from fatigue or doubt. Maybe both.

“This seems a little unfair,” Aria huffs, parrying another blow.

I snort. “And what, you think a fight’s supposed to be fair?”

She exhales sharply, frustration creeping into her movements. “I just—” She deflects my next strike but stumbles a half-step back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

That makes me laugh. A full, genuine laugh that echoes through the trees. I drop my stance just enough to flash her a smirk. “You’re not going to hurt me, Mouse.”

Aria’s lips press into a thin line, her grip tightening on the dagger, but her hesitation lingers. I push forward again, testing her, and sure enough, I can read her every move. She’s predictable—too measured, too thoughtful. She reacts instead of acting, waiting for the strike instead of dictating the fight.

Another swipe, another neat deflection, but I catch the shift of her weight before she makes it. I’m in her head already. She doesn’t realize she’s telling me exactly what she’s about to do.

“Stop thinking,” I growl, circling. “Instinct, Aria. Not choreography.”

Her eyes snap to mine, narrowed, burning with a spark that wasn’t there when we started.

Good.

I feint left, and she reacts a heartbeat too late. I hook my foot behind her ankle and sweep her legs out from under her. She lands with a soft thud, breath whooshing from her lungs. I follow, stepping in, driving the point of my blade into the dirt beside her shoulder.

“Dead,” I say, grinning down at her.

Her eyes flash—not with frustration, but something sharper. Sharper and dangerous.

In a blink, her legs scissor around mine. She twists with sudden strength, and I lose my footing, the world flipping upside down. I hit the ground hard, the impact rattling up my spine. Before I can react, cold steel kisses my collarbone.

Her dagger rests there, steady enough to remind me who’s in charge now. And she—gods—she’s straddling my hips, breath coming fast, curls tumbling over her shoulder.

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