Page 41 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Alaire moved to the opposite end of the mat. Her pulse raced wildly, echoing in her ears.
“Smash him to smithereens,” Kaia called in support behind her. “He’s a big brute with no brains. Use yours.”
“Alaire Aerendyl.” Hunter bared his teeth and chomped at the empty air. Brute, indeed. He looked at her as if she were an annoying midge he was determined to squish. “Another worthless human.”
“How original. Tell me something I haven’t heard.” They circled each other, neither making the first move.
“How will you feel once everyone talks about how a female defeated you? A human female, no less?” Alaire wasn’t done pressing the anger seething behind his eyes.
“That will never happen.”
“Look around. It’s what everyone is thinking.”
“No. It’s. Not!” he roared, charging forward.
Alaire shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. For all his muscle, Hunter was fast—faster than she expected. He threw apunch fueled by deep-seated rage. Anger gave him strength, but it also cost him precision.
A shot connected with her back near her kidneys, sending a sharp sting through her body. Alaire gritted her teeth, not particularly fond of being hit, but it allowed her to study him—the twitch in his shoulder before each strike, the narrowing of his eyes before he moved. Blake’s voice echoed in her mind:Find their patterns. Everyone has them.
When his shoulder twitched again, Alaire shifted left as his punch went wide and drove her fist into his exposed side. His confident smirk faltered, surprise flickering across his face for a heartbeat.
“You bitch!”
“I warned you.”
Anticipate, evade, counter, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Her counterattacks were strategic, aimed at wearing down his stamina. She kept moving, never staying still long enough to give him an opening.
But she wasn’t fighting a human. Hunter had the speed, stamina, and precision of another species entirely. A powerful kick to her shin and jab to her rotator cuff neutralized each of her attacks. He fought with the ease of someone who knew he held every physical advantage.
Still, Alaire landed another hit square in his face, catching him off guard. A solid connection elicited a grunt of pain as blood faceted from his nose, splattering across her.
She scooted back on the mat, fists raised. When Hunter’s eyes met hers, she gave him a wink.
And then her breath seized.
A familiar tightness wrapped around her lungs. Each inhalation came shallower than the last. Her focus faltered, panic rippling through her as her body launched its sudden, traitorous rebellion.
Not now. Not here.
Alaire ignored the burning in her chest, forcing herself to throw another punch, but her movements were sluggish. Her aim was off. Her lungs screamed for air, each breath sharp and desperate.
Hunter’s next strike connected with her ribs, squeezing the remaining air from her lungs. The edges of her vision blurred. Panic clawed at her mind, her body’s demand for oxygen overriding all else.
From somewhere far off, Dawson’s voice erupted, deadly and furious. “Enough!” His shout was swallowed by the rapid beating of her heart. She wanted to respond, to tell him she could handle this, but her knees buckled.
Only then did she remember the breathbind reliquary.
Another voice, Professor Hawthorne’s, cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent: “Aerendyl, to the soulwarden now!” The words swam in and out of reach, indistinguishable echoes bouncing off a cavern. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
And then she felt him.
Frosted evergreen and salted wind enveloped her as strong arms lifted her from the mat. Alaire fought to keep her body rigid but couldn’t. She wilted against him as Dawson’s grip steadied her, solid and unyielding. “I’ve got you,” he murmured in her ear, the raw fury from moments ago replaced by a gentleness she couldn’t reconcile. His arms, corded with tension, cradled her like she might shatter.
“I’ve got her,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. She wanted to tell him to let go, to say she didn’t need his help—that she hated him. But her treacherous body only relaxed further into him.
“I’m fine,” Alaire whispered, the words barely audible as her head lolled against his shoulder.
He ignored her—of course. Alaire tried to focus on Dawson: his jaw set, silence deliberate, as if he wouldn’t dignify her denial with a response. Yet there was no mockery, no disdain. Only quiet purpose.
