Page 35 of White Horse Black Nights

I tell that voice to shut up.

Sabine levels a hard look at me. “Will Lord Rian always be around?”

I wish like hell I could assure her that without a shadow of a doubt, she’ll be safe at Sorsha Hall. If everything goes according to plan,I’llbe watching out for her, and you can bet I won’t take my sight off her for a holy second.

But then again, not even I can be around all the time. I have to sleep. I have to piss. And if I don’t investigate the strange happenings at the Volkish border wall, who will?

My little violet is right: she needs to know how to defend herself.

“After dinner, then,” I say.

Once we’ve rested and filled our bellies, I explain methodically, “You’re at a disadvantage because of your size. The only opponent you could realistically defeat is another woman. I don’t mean to belittle the strength of your will—I’m only speaking practically. If you tried to take on someone my size, well . . . ”

I don’t have to finish my thought. I dwarf her as we sit beside the fire. Even my shadow vastly overstretches hers on the forest floor behind us. I could break her with just my little finger.

Not missing a beat, she says, “So, then tell me how to fight women.”

My eyebrows rise until I remember that for twelve years, it’s been women who have hurt her.

Sabine is nothing like what I expected. She’s a study in contradictions: soft and hard at the same time. It feels impossible that she’s real. This is a girl who will share her meager food with a mouse, who finds sympathy even for the slithering, venomous creatures of the night. She’s just as tender a morsel on the outside, with her creamy soft skin and round curves that beg to be squeezed.

And yet there’s another side to her entirely. An angry, determined girl who refuses to be a victim. Who wants to know how to fight against anyone who crosses her, even old women. I want to know how one person can hold so much complexity. How her soul can bear so much rage and yet not break from it. Maybe if I can figure out how she still sees the beauty in life after everything that’s happened to her, I can, too.

“Right.” I push to my feet. “Stand up, then. First lesson: basic stance.”

She eagerly springs to her feet as my borrowed shirt hangs down to mid-thigh. She raises her fists like a child would, too high, too forward, and utterly wrong. But stance is easy to fix. You can’t teach someone determination, and my little violet has that in spades.

“Before you think about your fists, get your feet right.” I move behind her, easing her arms down by her sides, and kick her feet shoulder-width apart. She totters off balance momentarily, and I snare her around the waist to center her.

“Here. Your hips carry a lot of power. Sink into your stance. When you throw a punch, you need the whole force of your body behind it, not just your arm.”

Her hips shift beneath my palms as she rocks back slightly to put the weight in her heels. “Like this?”

It’s a near-perfect stance, and I’m a little gobsmacked by how readily she picks up instruction. “That’s it, my lady. Now, you can think about a strike. Keep your elbow tucked in close to your body, like this.” I grasp her wrist lightly to show her how to hold her arm. “Good. Now make a fist. Keep it loose. To strike, you rotate your whole body into it.” I wrap my arms around her shoulders, pivoting her body as she practices striking.

After a few practice punches in the air, I move to face her. “Now show me as if I were your attacker.”

Her face is alight, determined. She aims a slow-motion punch at my chest, and the moment it makes contact, I trap her fist.

“Aim for vulnerable spots. I’m strongest here in my chest. Go for the chin instead, or here, where the ribcage meets. That’s more likely to throw your opponent off balance, especially if it’s a woman.”

“Like this?”

She drives her little fist into my solar plexus with all the force of a wisp of cloud blowing in the breeze.

I smirk. “Now put some force behind it.” Her eyebrows rise at the suggestion of violence, but she smashes her fist harder against me.

“Try again,” I order.

She hits with more force.

“Again.”

She pauses, looking up. “What if I hurt you for real?”

I chuckle “Oh, little violet. You can’t hurt me.”

Her jaw tenses like she doesn’t appreciate my bravado. She throws a punch, but this time, she strikes my chest squarely in my lefthand side, atop the wildcat’s puncture wounds. I jerk, not because the pain is bad—it isn’t—but because this clever little minx tried to pull a fast one on me.

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