Page 99 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“On the mat. Let’s see what you can do with those.” His gaze lingered on her a beat too long. A strange flutter erupted in her stomach; she pushed it aside.
Dawson discarded his own daggers in a pile at the mat’s edge, then drew his broadsword. “To make it fair,” he added with a smug smile.
She glared. He grinned.
“Do your worst,” she taunted.
Dawson attacked, his movements a blur. She’d paid attention last night to how he favored particular strikes and combinations—and when he preferred to evade.
She dodged his first attack.
Surprise flickered in the widening of his eyes, the corners of his mouth ticking upward.
Good.
He launched himself again, this time at her less dominant side. Guess she wasn’t the only one who’d been paying attention. She barely had time to react.
He twisted away with fluid grace, his next strike too fast. He was relentless. She gave herself over to instinct, to the song and dance of battle.
“Is that the best you’ve got?” Dawson barked.
“Not even close,” she snapped.
Her irritation fueled every swipe, daggers flashing in the rising glow of the sun. Dawson met her move for move—block for block, attack for attack. The icy mask he wore was replaced with a heat that mirrored their mutual animosity.
He feinted left, then pivoted, his blade arcing dangerously close to her side. Alaire twisted away, using her momentum tobring one dagger up to his throat. He caught her wrist, jerking her arm.
“Impressive for a halfling,” he said, blinking. “But not good enough for a flier.”
Alaire growled, wrenching free. She turned to face him, panting slightly. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Possibly.” His lips curled into a predatory smile.
The early light spilled through the oval skylight, growing brighter as they circled. Her muscles burned, but she welcomed it.
Thank Lysia for the breathbind reliquary, she thought, adjusting her grip on the slick daggers.
“Keep the daggers,” Dawson said, nodding at the blades she held in a defensive stance. “They suit your fighting style.”
“But they belong to the academy,” Alaire protested.
“Consider it another prince perk.”
Of course—though she couldn’t deny the exhilaration of claiming the beautiful blades as her own.
In a desperate move, she spun out, one dagger arcing wide toward the soft skin between Dawson’s collarbone—a spot she’d noticed he left unguarded. He swept her feet out, and she crashed to the mat. His thighs pinned her hips, forearms bracketing her ribs.
Breathe. Rememberto breathe.
“Yield,” Dawson growled, the word a rough command.
“Never.”
She tried to buck her hips, to twist and turn, but he had her locked down. She’d never fought anyone like him.
She tried not to notice his hips flush with hers. Everything about him set her on edge. It took every ounce of willpower not to reach up—whether to run her fingers along his stubble or punch him in the jaw, she wasn’t sure. And that was the danger.
“Confidence bordering on arrogance,” she teased.
