Page 81 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

"Last chance," he murmurs, voice like dark silk. "Walk away, little mouse."

My lips curl into something close to a snarl.

"Make me."

He moves before I can breathe.

A blur of speed, a shadow streaking across the arena.

I barely lift my daggers in time to block the strike, his clawed hand colliding with the crossed blades, the force of it rattling through my bones.

My feet skid across the stone.

The impact jolts, but I recover quickly, twisting into a counterstrike. My dagger slashes for his ribs, but he dodges, moving with that unnatural, inhuman grace.

Then he’s behind me, faster than thought, a solid presence pressing into my back.

“Sloppy,” he murmurs against my ear.

I snarl and drive my elbow back, but he’s already moving again, stepping away before I can land a blow.

Heat rushes through my veins.

This is not training.

This is not some lesson in restraint.

I want to hurt him.

He let them speak about me like I was nothing. He let them call me his mistake.

The anger fuels me, sharpens my strikes. I lunge, sweeping low, aiming to cut across his thigh.

He catches my wrist mid-strike.

The world tilts as he spins me, forcing me off balance.

My back hits the stone floor with a sharp smack, but I don’t stay down.

I roll, kicking up, slashing again.

He blocks. Our arms lock.

Our faces inches apart. And everything shifts.

The fury remains, but it is tangled with something darker.

Something more dangerous.

My breath hitches, chest rising and falling too fast as his golden gaze burns into mine.

This close, I can see the tension in his jaw, the flicker of restraint behind his eyes.

His claws flex against my skin, the grip tight, but not painful.

We are both breathing too hard.

We are both holding too much back.

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