Page 204 of Emylia

And the one after that.

“Keep your core tight,” he said between blows. “Throw your weight into it. Don’t hold back on my account.”

“I’m not,” I spat through gritted teeth.

But I was. Not with my fists—but with everything else.

A pause.

We stood toe to toe, chest to chest, breathing the same air.

He dipped his head, capturing my gaze. “Princess…”

His fingers found my hips and tightened.

I attacked without a word. He caught my wrist midair again, yanked me forward. I nearly slammed into his chest, but stopped short, muscles locked.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles. Gently. Reverently.

The breath caught in my throat. That single touch undid me more than any blow could have.

I yanked my hand back, heart stammering. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not fighting fair.”

He grinned. “I never said I would.”

I faked high–a sharp jab toward his cheek, baiting him with my eyes. His guard flew up instinctively–but the real strike was lower. A vicious hook slammed into his ribs, sharp and fast, knocking the wind from his lungs before he could curse.

He staggered.

Not from the pain.

From the humiliation–from the sharp echo of his own miscalculation.

That’s when I saw it.

Not the flicker of amusement that had been there seconds ago. No more humble restraint. No more teasing.

This was challenge.

Arealchallenge.

Not the playful shit he’d been coaxing me with—thiswas him coming for blood.

And I was ready for it.

His fist came flying at my face—fast, sharp, unforgiving. I dropped. Bent at the knees and slipped beneath his arm, using his own balance against him.

He stumbled half a step—just enough—and I drove my elbow back, aiming for ribs. He caught it—of course he did—but I was already twisting, already pivoting, already coming at him with a wild, snapping kick toward his thigh.

Contact.

He grunted, stepped back, and we separated—circling now, breath heavy, eyes locked.

---