Page 18 of Forged in Flame and Shadow

“Fine,” she says. “Show me.”

I start by running through some of the ways she can break the hold of a stronger opponent. I’ve seen Damia and Phaia use them enough times against the males of our species, and while it might make more sense for the two of them to show Ana how to perform them firsthand, that would defeat the other point of this exercise.

“No, you have to establish leverage before I get my arms around you,” I say as Ana strains against my grip. We’re closer than we’ve been for weeks, her face inches from mine, and I can smell the jasmine scent of her hair.

“Just give me a minute,” she snaps. I loosen my hold, and she ducks out from under my arms, smoothing her hair back. There’s a very distracting light flush on her cheeks. I try to focus on the task at hand, throwing out more directions.

“You won’t have a minute in combat. You either execute the move successfully or your opponent crushes the life out of you.”

“Yes, but I’m still learning,” she says. “We’re not actuallyona battlefield right now, and I can take a break if I want.”

“If you don’t take the training as seriously as a real fight, you won’t get anywhere,” I say. It’s true. It’s the kind of tough conditions that made great fighters of Alastor and Damia and the others. The ones who really commit—who treat the training like it isn’t just a trial run—are the ones who rise above.

Still, Ana doesn’t appreciate my advice.

“You never switch it off, do you?” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She shakes her head at me like Alastor did an hour ago and loosens her stance.

“Whatever. Let’s go again.”

I lunge at her, and this time she remembers enough of my instructions to angle her body to one side, hooking her foot behind mine. Still, I don’t budge.

“Better, but you’re still not there. Remember your arms this time. If you’re going to throw me off balance, you need to use everything you have.”

I can feel the tension in her before we’ve even started sparring again. Where is it coming from? She’s not tired like the other day, and she usually takes instruction better than this. I search her face for some clue as to what’s going on, but mostly there’s her usual mask with a few glimpses of that wariness again.

The next time she remembers all the right movements, shoving one hand up under my chin as I reach for her, hooking one foot behind mine, and kicking my leg out from under me. I let myself tumble to the ground, but when she forgets the next part of the move, I don’t hold back punishment, reaching up to pull her down with me. I roll over, pinning her face down to the ground, with one of her arms behind her back.

“Fuck,” she says, kicking a foot against the mossy floor.

I lean down to murmur in her ear. “You forgot to punch down after you dropped me,” I say. My body brushes against hers, and she wriggles beneath me. I exhale, trying to stay focused.

“I know,” she snaps.

I let go of her arm and she flips over, but I still haven’t moved. She’s lying beneath me, only inches separating our chests. My knee rests on the ground, and one of her legs is pressed against mine. Sparks are dancing from her body to mine, and I think about how badly I want to slip my hands beneath her top and feel the soft skin there. To slide my fingers up her stomach and across her breasts, making her breath hitch with pleasure instead of anger. How easy it would be right now to wrap myhand around her hip and pull her against me, until she can feel exactly how much I want her.

“Think about how much you’d really like to hit me right now, and maybe that will help you remember next time,” I say, attempting to distract myself.

Her eyes darken. “Are you trying to joke with me?” she asks. “What happened to taking training seriously?”

My eyes drop to her mouth.

“Being serious doesn’t mean it can’t still be fun,” I mutter.

I know it’s the wrong thing to say the moment it comes out, but being this close to her has obviously fried my brain. She yanks herself up off the ground, forcing me to stand too, and pins me with a furious glare.

“Stop it. Stop trying to make things like they were before you lied to me. Before you poisoned me and stole my power. This isn’tfunfor me. Gods, it makes me sick justlookingat you. I should’ve believed them when they told me what you were. Enough people warned me, and I should have listened.”

My defenses rise up, responding to the venom in her tone.

“What are you talking about?” I demand. “What am I?”

“A liar. Akiller. Someone who will do anything to get what he wants.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I say.

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