Third time, I fake a retreat, then bull-rush her. She doesn’t flinch. She sidesteps, tangles my foot with hers, and slaps my ribcage with the flat of the sword.
“Touché,” I grunt.
She gives a tiny laugh. It’s not mocking, but it’s not friendly either.
“Again?” she asks.
“Again.”
We reset. This time, I don’t play fair. I throw my mass at her, use my height to block the angle, and force her to parry with pure strength. She’s not weak, but she can’t match my press. She pivots, tries to disarm. I twist out, and for a second our faces are inches apart, mesh on mesh.
I feel her breath, hot and quick.
“Animal,” she says, low enough only I can hear.
“Princess,” I reply, and drive her back with a flurry of slashes.
She yields ground only when she has to, backing toward the mirrored wall, then springing off it with a move that almost nails my eye. I catch her wrist, just for a split second, and she jerks free, slapping my hand with her blade.
The instructor calls, “Stop.” Neither of us does.
I take her full-on, no style, just speed and violence. She’s fast enough to survive, but her technique can’t hold against my weight. I pin her arm, force her blade up, and push her to the wall. The foil at her throat is mine.
She goes perfectly still, chest heaving inside the jacket. I can see the sweat running down her neck, the way it beads at the collar. Her fingers tense on the grip, but she doesn’t drop the weapon.
Behind the mesh, her eyes are pure rage, the most beautiful challenge.
I lean close. “You lost,” I whisper.
Her lips barely move. “Only if you say so.”
I feel it then, the electricity. It’s not about the match. It’s about what comes next.
I step back. Let her go. She straightens, yanks off the mask, hair wild. Her face is flushed, the skin at her jaw red where the padding bit in. Her mouth is twisted in something that could be fury or something else.
She doesn’t look away.
The preps have vanished. Even the coach is pretending not to see us, head bent to his clipboard.
She stands there, foil dangling at her side, breathing hard.
“You want to try with real weapons?” she asks, voice steady, but I hear the edge. “Maybe I can kill you.”
“I’d just stalk you as a ghost,” I say, and toss the practice foil onto the rack. It clatters, loud in the empty space.
She doesn’t say anything. Just watches, calculating.
Walking towards her, I see her body shift. She stiffens her shoulders, then forces them loose, turning her back to me. When she turns, her face is neutral, a mask made for war, but her eyes have gone dark—pupils so wide there’s barely any color left.
“Round two?” she says, cool as glass.
“No.”
She raises her sword, “Then fuck off and let me practice.”
I grin before advancing on her again. She stabs at my quad—hard enough to bruise—but I’m not stopping, using my off-hand to trap her wrist and spin her hard into the mirrored wall. Theglass shakes but doesn’t break. She grunts as her chest slams the surface, breath knocked out in a whoosh.
I hold her there, wrist pinned, foil clattering to the ground.
