“Over my fucking dead body.” I throw my weight into my next advance, drawing a nice, clean cut across his bicep.
Niklaus smirks, bowing his head in approval.
“Very good.”
I peer up at the Ringmaster, curling his upper lip in disgust. Though he barks something to his audience of restless soldiers, and they fall into a fit of drunk laughter.
“Again,” Niklaus orders, following the same context clues I’m piecing together.
Still not enough.
I huff, groan, then side-step his next jab at me. I cut the edge of my foot on his razor edge on purpose as I use my heel to kick it away. With his core vulnerable, I slice into his stomach. The swipe is so fast, so unexpected, Niklaus growls. Both at the sudden sharp pain, but also at the dripping blood coming off my foot and onto the stage floor.
But I need to bleed too. It’s an artificial wound meant to give them a scene bloodier than it actually is. The scarlet red smears across the floor, enough to form a noticeable obstacle for me as I keep my feet moving to maintain agility.
I search the sentinels for any sign that someone is going to stop the fight.
But there is no end near.
“You are a selfish little girl, Spitfire.” An unnerving amount of blood streams from Niklaus’s stomach, pooling over his waistline and saturating the fabric. “You’d jeopardize both of our families’ futures just to warn a man who was criminally insane!”
At this point, I cannot tell if he’s only saying these things to provoke me. It’s enough that his eyes gleam with a hateful truth burning through his pupils. I bite down, tossing my sword from my right hand to the left, and slash at one side of his chest. The attack is harsher than I intended, and he groans at the skin being ripped open.
Those oceanic eyes darken.
Niklaus’s attacks are even harder to fend off as I’m out of breath. My lungs burn. My hands tremble. My pulse stutters like a flame being snuffed out.
At some point, I can’t keep up with my feet stumbling back. I’m too tired to provide well-orchestrated footwork or agile maneuvers. Each of his strikes hurt my joints and blister into my bones. And I fall back, head thumping against the stage.
Niklaus cages me to the floor with his body, throwing his sword down against mine. I don’t even know how I’m managing to hold my weapon to his, with his weight and strength pressurizing against my shaking arms. But here I am. Teeth gritting together. Hands going numb. Eyes welling with tears. Sweat glistening across every inch of skin.
“Are you submitting to me, dear wife?” His deep murmur glazes over my skin.
I’m too beaten down to offer any fight left.
“I can’t—I’m so tired.”
Drops of blood splatter from Niklaus’s arm, chest, and stomach to the floor around me and onto my body huffing and puffing under his hold.
He scans the audience, sweeping over the countless rows of individuals observing us, then to the Ringmaster who has not budged. There’s a set of gears that rotate in his head, and for several seconds I adversely feel safe under the security of his body guarding mine. I can breathe. I can catch my breath.
Cheering. Stomping. Clapping.
Niklaus drops his gaze back down to me.
Flames soar behind his head.
And he looks absolutely stripped of words.
“Niklaus…”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Sapphire.”
With that, he holds his breath, scoops his hands along the side of my face, and kisses me.
It’s careful, restrained, and cautious. But as the noise dies beyond this safe place on the platform, I soften my tired, defensive posture. I open up for him. My legs part, letting his hips lower between my thighs. He pauses to pull away, lifting those dark lashes to get a good look at me. And his head dips down again, taking my lips, my tongue, and melting his frame into my own.
It’s like being underwater and caught in a thunderstorm without shelter all at once.
