I charged, this time with a growl of frustration, aiming a low kick at his side. He caught my ankle midair.
“Better,” he murmured, before shoving me back. I stumbled, nearly falling, but caught myself.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re predictable.”
I straightened, jaw clenched. “Is this how you treat all your students?”
“You’re not a student,” Rowan replied, expression unreadable. “You’re trying to survive. That’s different.”
I looked at him then, really looked—at the ease of his movements, the sharpness in his eyes, the way he held himself like nothing could ever strike him down.
“You could kill me right now if you wanted,” I stated. It wasn’t a question, but he answered it anyway.
“Yes.”
That single word rang louder than any blow.
Then he added, quieter: “But I won’t.”
Something lodged in my throat.
“Again,” he said, stepping back and opening his stance. “And this time, stop hesitating.”
I exhaled through my nose, shaking out my hands. My muscles ached from clenching, but I couldn’t seem to stop. The sweat at my hairline wasn’t just from the heat.
I lunged again. This time I didn’t think—I just moved, letting my instincts take over. But Rowan was already moving before I did. He knocked my wrist aside, stepped in close, and swept my leg out from under me.
I hit the mat with a loud thud, all the air fleeing my lungs.
He hovered above, not gloating, not mocking—just… observing. “You think too much,” he said simply, offering a hand.
I smacked it away and climbed to my feet on my own.
“Great,” he said dryly. “She has pride.”
I gritted my teeth. “She also has a powerful desire to punch you in the face.”
His lip quirked just barely. “Then by all means, stop showing your movements before you’ve made them.”
I squared up again, hands raised, breath steady. I moved—quick jab, pivot, feint to the left. He blocked with ease, but I saw the flicker of approval in his eyes.
Then he came at me.
He threw his fist at me slower, yet I barely ducked in time. If it had been real, my nose would’ve been shattered. The next hit came low, toward my ribs, and I twisted just in time to avoid the full brunt. Still, it knocked the wind out of me.
Rowan didn’t stop. He stepped into my space, crowding me. His arm hooked around mine, trapping it.
“You keep moving backward,” he said. “That’s not defense. That’s retreating.”
His breath was warm against my temple, his voice low—too calm for someone who’d just disarmed me.
“You’re faster than you think,” he added. “But you don’t trust yourself. You hold back. That’ll get you killed.”
I jerked my arm free with a snarl and shoved at his chest. He barely moved.
“Again,” he said, not unkindly. “Use the anger.”
