I succeeded in rolling to my feet and hurling what might have been a deadly knife-hand blow to his neck, but my momentum kept shifting.
Quick as a cat, Melek released my locked arm, and defended the blow before I reached his vulnerable throat. He yanked me off my feet again, but this time we were both off-balance. I dove, rolling over him, forcing him to choose between keeping his grip, or making it to his feet.
He chose as I would have—he released me and we both sprang back to our feet, hands in defense, bouncing on the balls of our feet, ready to move again.
It was a surreal moment. Had I let myself take a breath and consider who I faced, I may have lost my nerve—but my family’s safety, and mylifedepended on this moment. I couldn’t give an inch.
Left, right, punch—Melek blocked each, then twisted his wrist on the second block to grab my arm and turn to flip me again. But I anticipated him this time, and let my arm give as he ducked to lower his center of gravity. Instead of fighting, I bent with his movement and turned my back to him, then threw my other elbow backwards, straight for his temple—forcing him to duck and weave or take an elbow to the eye socket.
We broke apart again, but I gave him no quarter. I couldn’t afford to give him a blink to plan or anticipate. I had to keep him on defense.
Punches and kicks, grunts and heaves. We circled each other and the room. He dodged a kick, and my foot caught a small table and sent it flying. I blocked a punch, and Melek’s staggered step put his hip into a lamp that topped and crashed to the floor.
In the back of my mind I knew we had witnesses, knew we weren’t alone. But in that moment, the world disappeared. All I saw was the enemy—who carried the face of my brother—and whose life meant the death of everything I loved.
I would grieve him later. For today, I fought for my mate, my son, and any chance the three of us had to hold onto each other.
Melek and I both wearied, our breaths growing heavy and deep. Our movements slowed somewhat, but I’d fought alongside Melek fight for nearly two decades.
He may tire, but he would not retreat—and neither would I.
One of us had to go down.
Then, as we whipped and punched, turned and thrust, palms, knees, and feet—anything to strike the other down—I made the fatal mistake.
He threw a punch, but it lacked his full extension and power by a hair. He was tiring. Mindless, I took the opening and reached for that arm that was left extended for a blink longer than usual—and instead of attempting to retrieve his arm and break my grip, Melek slid closer and used the lock to pull me forward, straight onto his knee.
I took it to the stomach and grunted hard, vaguely registering another gasp from one of the girls, and took the only route open to me—I let myself drop, pulling his weight aside as I swept his braced leg out from under him.
Melek droppedontome, wrapping me in those steel arms as we fell, and when I turned to brace my hands on the floor and push myself back to my feet, he came with me in a sick parody of a hug.
Wrenching my shoulder, I managed to turn in the circle of his arms, tucking my knees to kick up and back, and finally connecting with Melek, who huffed, released me, staggering back a few small steps. His hands remained hovering in front of his chest, ready to catch or block, but his chest heaved, and his eyes locked on mine, as I leaped to my feet.
“I’m not going to die,” he choked the words out, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re not going to kill me.”
I snarled and threw myself at him, but Melek dodged my punch, caught my wrist and pulled me forward onto his uppercut.
The world spun. My head snapped back, but we were both hunched forward, and I turned, managing a backhanded hammerfist, straight for his temple. With a growled curse, Melek dodged, and we broke apart again, once more circling, glaring, hands at the ready.
With a few feet between us, I became aware of the trickle on my chin and quickly wiped my face, the back of my hand coming away red.
I made myself smile.
Melek, one eye swelling, never broke eye-contact. “Don’t make me hurt you, Jann.”
I spat a mouthful of blood and saliva on the floor, to let him know what I thought of that. “Stop hiding your ambition behind noble intention.”
The word was barely out of my mouth when Melek swung and time slowed. I barely pulled my head aside, his knuckles brushing my cheekbone and making my ear sing hot in what would have been an earth-shattering punch—but instead of blocking, I whipped my hands up to catch the wrist and fist and twisted, forcing Melek to take a knee or let his arm be twisted out of its socket. When I shifted my weight to kick his chest—the correct force would push him back hard enough to snap his arm, and possibly a rib or two—Melek leanedinand used my grip to pull me for the floor, rolling with my shifting weight, to kick straight up and plant his foot right in my stomach.
I pitched forward and had to let go. While I staggered, Melek rolled back to his feet and came at me with a front kick straight for my face—I blocked desperately, pushing him off his line so he over-balanced and went to one knee. But I never quite found my balance, either. When I immediately attempted a round-kick to his head, Melek blocked with one arm, then punched. When I blocked in return, he grabbed my wrist.
Still on one knee, he yanked me down as he pivoted on that knee, pulled my arm over his shoulder, and flipped me, ass-over-head and threw me to the floor.
I landed with a thud, my lungs deflating like a popped bladder. Before I could think, there was a sharp cry from Yilan at the edge of the room, and the flash of a blade flying through the air.
I flinched, snarling, my body convinced it whipped towardsme.But it stopped cold, the hilt in Melek’s grip, then flashedagain as he whipped it down to lay at my throat, and we both froze.
Diadre screamed—but cut off when we went still.
