Page 33 of Ashes to Ashes

“Public works.” His grin widens, revealing slightly pointed canines. “But I make no promises about keeping my hands to myself if you keep moving like that.”

He moves closer, his massive presence making the space between us feel charged with potential energy. He’s huge—towering over me by at least a foot, broad shoulders blocking the light behind him.

“Perhaps a demonstration between instructors would better illustrate the principles?” His invitation carries an undercurrent that has nothing to do with academics. “I promise to be gentle. At first.”

The man winks at me. Winks!

Worse is the flutter of excitement that hums beneath my skin.

The students’ collective intake of breath sends a ripple through the air.

Finnian takes a half-step forward as if to intervene, then stops himself, fingers tightening around a book he carries.

From the shadows, Kieran watches with predatory stillness, his face utterly blank but his eyes tracking every movement with unnerving intensity.

This is a test. A public evaluation of my capabilities.

“Of course,” I agree, matching his casual tone. “What parameters would you suggest?”

“Hand-to-hand?” he offers. “No weapons, no intentional injuries. First to pin their opponent for three seconds wins.”

Standard sparring rules. Nothing I haven’t done hundreds of times in military training. Except my opponent is an immortal Fae combat instructor with unknown capabilities. And I’m pretty sure he’s trying to flirt with me.

And damn him, but it might just work on me. Sparring can be considered foreplay. Maybe.

“Agreed,” I say, setting aside my staff and moving to the center of the training area. The training mats pulse brighter under my feet. The room recognizes me. Responds to what I’m becoming.

Without thinking, I reach up and unclasp the pendant, letting the chain pool in my palm. The moment the metal breaks contact with my skin, everything changes.

Orion studies me, reassessing. His size is even more imposing up close—he stands at least a foot taller than me, his shoulders broad enough to block the light. Yet he doesn’t use his bulk to intimidate, instead moving with surprising lightness, his weight perfectly balanced. “Shall we show them some more advanced techniques?”

I nod, adjusting my stance. “Ready when you are.”

This time, I observe more carefully. The students haven’t just been shown a human defeating a fae student—they need to see what happens when skill levels are truly matched.

Orion’s right hand snaps forward—a palm strike aimed at my sternum. I pivot, catching his wrist and redirecting the force past my shoulder. His skin burns against mine. Fire races up my arm. The thorns under my sleeve blaze in response. My pendant turns ice-cold, fighting back. I nearly gasp at the intensity of it, nothing like the emptiness I’ve felt with human contact.

He counters instantly, using my grip as leverage to pull me off-balance, his left leg sweeping toward my ankle.

“Nice reflexes,” he murmurs, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “Not many can redirect that strike.”

I jump the sweep, but he anticipates this, his redirected palm strike becoming a grab that closes around my forearm. His grip burns against my skin as he pulls me toward him, using my own momentum to unbalance me. The heat of his palm seeps through fabric, finding the thorn patterns beneath. They respond with answering warmth, pulsing against his touch like a second heartbeat.

“Your arm,” he whispers, eyes widening slightly. “It’s?—”

I recognize this combination from Graves’ briefing materials—a Wild Court takedown sequence documented in classified reports. My conscious mind accesses the appropriate counter-technique, a simple military redirection designed to use an opponent’s strength against them.

Instead of resisting, I drop my center of gravity and roll with his pull, sliding beneath his extended arm. My elbow finds the sensitive point beneath his sternum—just enough to make him exhale sharply. But as I complete the movement, I realize something isn’t right. The counter I just executed wasn’t the human technique I’d intended to use.

Who taught me that? When? How do I know this?

He releases me, eyes widening slightly. “That’s not a human technique,” he murmurs, too low for the students to hear.

I adjust my stance, struggling to control my breathing. That movement had emerged from muscle memory I shouldn’t possess—fluid and instinctive, nothing like the angular military forms I’ve trained in.

“Just adaptive,” I respond quietly.

Orion circles left, feinting with a low kick before launching a combination of strikes that blur with supernatural speed—jab, cross, uppercut, elbow.

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