Something glints in the moonlight. A knife’s blade, twirling delicately in Valtar’s fingers, one of his seemingly inexhaustible supply. It comes to me suddenly, for the first time, that I have put myself completely in his hands, far from anyone who might help if he were to turn violent. In his place, Joro would have killed me by now and tossed my body over that edge to be claimed by the forest and its inhabitants. No one would know what had happened; no one would find me for days, if ever.
“You are not getting out of here.”
“What?” I gasp softly.
He doesn’t look at me but continues twirling his blade withdelicate expertise. “You’re not getting out of here,” he repeats, “so it’s high time you learned to defend yourself.”
For a moment, his words don’t quite fit into the grooves of my brain. Then I shake my head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“I…don’t want to be a killer.”
His jaw goes hard. “You don’t have to be a killer, but you cannot remain helpless.” He turns away from me so that I can see only his ear and the thick black waves of hair falling nearly to his shoulders. “Tonight…” he says, then pauses as though choosing his words more carefully. “This evening, when the…the votyr attacked…my focus was not what it should have been. Your helplessness compromised my abilities.”
I bristle, drawing myself up a little straighter. “I wasn’t exactly helpless. I did have the knife you lent me.”
“Holding a knife in your hand and knowing what to do with it are two entirely different things.”
“I had the general idea! I stuck the pointy bit into the demon’s mouth. I think, for a novice, that’s not so bad.”
Valtar stops twirling his blade, gripping it by the tip between his fingers. He holds it out to me, hilt first. “I intend to teach you the basics of self-defense.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes.”
There’s something so imperative in his tone, I find myself reaching out, taking hold of the offered weapon without actually intending to do it. The moment it’s in my grasp, Valtar stands and offers a hand to me. I chew my lower lip, then slip my fingers into his. He pulls me to my feet, and I find suddenly that we are standing very close, breathing each other’s air. I could almost swear I hear the beat of his heart, swift and light like the counterpoint toa song. His dark eyes stare into mine, angled so as to repulse even the faintest trace of starlight. I cannot bear the intensity of that look and drop my gaze.
Only now I find myself focusing on his mouth instead.
I wonder…what would it be like to kiss him again? Would it be any different from kissing a stranger? Would it compare to that wild, hot-blooded, passionate moment which has haunted my memory these last three days? Or have I built up that memory of crashing lips into something it never was? There’s only one way to find out, and yet…and yet…
I take a hasty step back. “All right then, Prince.” My breath comes a little short, but that may be due to the thinness of the air up here. “If I were going to let you teach me knife skills, how would you begin?”
He looks me up and down slowly, his gaze lingering. There’s nothing licentious in his eye, only pure calculation. “Widen your stance,” he says abruptly.
“Pardon?”
“Before you can do anything with the blade itself, you must know how to stand correctly. Widen your stance, bend your knees, make certain of your center of balance.”
I do as instructed, thankful to be wearing the light gray gown Philippa changed me into following the banquet rather than heavy velvet skirts. “There,” I say when I think I’ve got it. “How is that?”
He crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. “Your first defensive stroke,” he says, “will be against a downward blow. Your attacker will most likely be human and, odds are, will favor his right hand. Thus, the blow will be aimed at your left side. Due to your height, it will likely come from above, and a killer will go instinctively for your neck or head.”
This is all very specific. I blink but try to concentrate, determined to take it in.
“You need to keep your blade to the front.” Valtar angles his body, demonstrating what he means. “When the blow descends, you want to lash out”—his empty hand flies, quicker than thought—“and cut his forearm, even as the rest of your body draws back to avoid his stroke. Understand?”
I lick my dry lips. “I’m not sure.”
“Try to hit me.”
I draw back a half step. “What?”
“Attack me. A downward stroke, aimed for my neck. I’ll demonstrate what I want you to do.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
