I remember what Asher said to her, before she drank the whiskey.
“Dane,” I say softly, “would have afit.”
She inhales sharply, and her head whips around to face me. For an instant, I think I’ve pushed too far—or maybe I’ve completely misjudged.
But then I realize that she’s balled up a fist, and she’s swinging for my face.
I block, throwing her arm wide, but she’s quick and she has her other fist ready. When I block twice, she changes tactics, grappling for my face. Somewhere along the line, she figured out how to be ruthless with her thumbs, because there’s a moment where it’s unclear if she’s trying to gouge out my eyes or my windpipe.
At first, she’s smiling, her efforts tentative, but I match her strength and I don’t yield. It doesn’t take long for her to realize that I’m not going to be like whatever guard or soldier has been assigned to give her a few sessions of “training.” Hell, she’s probably been taught by someone who’s been ordered to let her win without much effort. Someone who’s never let her feel the power of a true victory, or the physical release of a real fight.
I feel the moment when our tussling shifts, when she throws her heart—or maybe her rage—into it. Her swings become more sharp, her attacks more pointed. We’ve been mostly silent, mindful of the sleeping soldiers surrounding the fire, but now we’re grappling withsome force, and the sound of our breathing is heavy between us. At some point, her nails dig into the skin of my neck, and she’s so determined that I suddenly can’t tell if she’s enjoying this or if she hates me for suggesting it.
When I shove her off, she scowls and comes at me full force. This time, I let her tackle me, and we go skidding backward into the dirt. When we roll, she ends up straddling me, and I want to ask what happened to the princess who declared I was beinginappropriatea day ago. Her thighs press into my waist, and I immediately forget that we’re tussling at all. But her expression is all battle now, and I’m impressed at her ferocity. Luckily I have enough training to fend off her attacks. When she tries to grab a handful of dirt to throw in my face, I catch her wrist, flip her onto her back, and pin her.
It leaves me on top of her, pressing her forearms into the dirt. Her eyes are a bit wild, and she scrabbles for purchase, breathing hard.
“Easy,” I say softly. “We’re notreallyfighting, Princess.”
She stares up at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair in sweat-damp tendrils around her face. Her chest is heaving under mine.
“Oh,” she says between breaths. “Oh. Forgive me.”
“Forgiveyou?” I brush a thumb over the inside of her wrist, then let go, bracing my hands in the dirt. “That was impressive.”
I expect her to roll away, but she reaches for my throat. Her thumbs trace over my skin where her nails dug in. “Did I do this?”
Every stroke of her touch is impossible to ignore. “Better there than my eyes,” I say.
Her blush deepens, and her fingers are so soft on my throat. “I’ve never fought with anyone like that before,” she says.
“I’ll fight with you anytime you like.”
Her eyes flare a little in surprise, but that curiosity hasn’t dimmed. Without warning, she swings for my face, and I barely catch her wrist before she makes contact.
“Like right now?” she says. She smiles, and somehow it feels like a reward.
I laugh a little, under my breath. She’s so different from Asher, and I find it fascinating, especially considering their connection. He’s fullof violence and rage, and it’s completely unbound. Every time he settles under my touch, it’s like taming a wolf.
The princess is the opposite. This feels like freeing a caged falcon and hoping it returns to your hand.
Her wrist is still in my grip, but I’ve loosened my hold, so her fingers drift along my chin. It forces me still, especially when her eyes narrow a little, her fingers tracing through the beard growth as if it’s captivating.
I wonder if she’s ever touched a man like this. The thought is striking, especially because her eyes have gone dark, her breathing quickening. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that her body is caged beneath me, that I could shift my weight a few inches and this would be an entirely different kind of tussling.
As soon as I have the thought, I’m as hard as a rock.
Her breath catches, and we’re pressed together so tightly that I’m sure she can feel it. But the instant I begin to pull away, she grabs hold of my tunic, holding me in place.
I have to remind myself of her innocence. This is not a seduction. This is not a courtier angling for political sway, and it’s not a soldier looking to stay warm for a few hours. We’re under the stars, surrounded by my men. She’s aprincess,destined for an alliance. She deserves a slow and careful courtship, not impassioned rutting in a ravine.
But her eyes are wide and trusting, her lips parted slightly, her fingers exploring my jaw now that I’ve gone still. A strain has built in my shoulders from the effort of holding myself above her, but it would take a bolt from an arrow to convince me to move.
When her thumb runs along the ridge of my lower lip, my eyes fall closed, and I inhale a ragged breath. Her hips shift beneath me, and it’s almost my undoing, especially when she gasps.
I put a hand to her waist, holding her in place. “Princess...”
But instead of going still, she arches a little under my touch, her body moving against mine. I shift my grip to pin her there, and she gasps—and then we scuffle. Her chest swells with each breath, and her eyes have lit with challenge again. Her fist is still clenching the front of my tunic, but this time it’s all eagerness, and not entirely about fighting at all.
