She swayed against him, and for an absurd moment, he thought about putting his arm around her waist to steady her.
‘Your grip,’ he said, clearing his throat again. ‘It needs work. The main component of your fist should hold the hilt tightly. Close to the blade. Like this.’Stars help him, he moved his hand on top of hers,inching her grip forward, pressing her fingers tight around the hilt.
Dangerous.
So very dangerous.
She swallowed thickly. ‘Like this?’
‘Very good, Iversen.’
Iversen.
She was an Iversen.
Tor’s sister.
Don’t forget.
‘But your thumb and your forefinger should be lighter. For ease of movement.’ He stroked her thumb, easing the tension there. ‘Good.’
Step away from the wrangler.
He ignored the warning bells in his head. This was training, nothing more. A vital exercise for a vital component of his war effort.
‘Tense your grip for defence,’ he said, straining to stay focused. ‘Draw your sword up and close to your body.’ The one he could feel pressed against him, warm and supple and— ‘Loosen your grip when you mean to strike. Lunge and swing, straight and true.’
She drew her sword up close, until the hilt pressed against her chest.
‘Like this?’ she whispered.
Not at all.
‘Almost.’
Get away from her.
‘Let’s parry. I’ll show you,’ he said, reluctantly dragging himself away from the warmth of her body. He arced around her, drawing his own sword.
She squared her stance, crouching low.
Without lunging, he lightly tapped his blade against hers.
She wobbled, stumbling backwards.
He stifled a sigh.
‘Wait. I wasn’t ready.’ She hurried forward, resuming her stance.
He tapped her again.
Dire.
And again.
Woeful.
And again.
