Tarek and Curio are off to the side, talking back and forth, most likely about me and the mistakes I keep making, but I tune them out and concentrate on the arrogant Scorpion in front of me.
“What’s wrong, Beasty?” Riall taunts, his eyes dropping to my pointed canines when my lip curls up in a snarl. “I thought you said you weren’t craving blood,” he jeers, spinning so fast I shouldn’t be able to track it.
Thank the stars I can, or I’d be covered in more bruises than I already am. I’ll need to sleep on the roof directly under the moon at this point to be ready to go again by tomorrow.
“I’m not,” I snap back before diving underneath his swipe and aiming my staff at his knees.
I’m not completely lying. I’m not craving blood exactly, I’m craving a fuck ton of other things I have no business thinking about, and it’s driving me mad. He jumps over my charge, rolling forward and popping back up like some maddening roach that refuses to take the hint and die.
“Craving something else then?” he teases as he starts to circle me.
I glare at him, sidestepping his effort to put me on my back foot and force me to lose ground. “No, Bones. No cravings to speak of. I can’t say I care for bugs,” I snark, hoping he can’t see right through me, but the bite I try to infuse in my tone doesn’t deter him in the slightest.
He just laughs.
If only I could find it all so amusing, but I’m pissed. I can’t figure out how he’s setting me off, but I know he is. No matter what I do, I can’t sort out how to stop my fangs from reacting to whatever it is he’s doing to me. He’s forcing me to literally fight through the driving need that’s currently hammering at me like a battering ram. At this point, I’m not sure what will satisfy it: blood, sex, or death. I’m so incredibly frustrated that I suspect it’ll take all three.
Every time my fangs drop, it’s like an off switch to my mind. Gone are the maneuvers and tactical plans for how to wipe the floor with Bones. In floods all kinds of thoughts about what Riall might taste like. What would his blood feel like in my veins? Better yet, what would it be like to drink at his throat while other things work in and out of me faster and harder and…
Ughhh!
I shake away my thoughts and once again glare at the knowing smirk I’m determined to wipe from his lush mouth. I want to quit, but that’s not in my nature. Regardless of the fact that Ineeddistance from him. Space is the only thing at this point that can clear away the thoughts and images I know he’s somehow shoving in my mind.
He’s a bad fae. It’s a fact. One not even he would deny. So why is it so hard to stick to the plan I was committed to before I walked back in the kitchen door and stuffed my face. Riall doesn’t matter to me, he shouldn’t; I just wish my fangs—and now my cunt—would get on board with that.
I feint a leg sweep to the right and then, quick as a striking whip, redirect my weight and my staff for a lateral hit to Riall’s ribs. He blocks me with annoyingly little effort, and I’m once again reminded that fighting a seasoned Order member is nothing like training with a fellow blade slave, or even a master for that matter. If I couldn’t do what I can, Riall would have walloped me at least a dozen times already.
“Now, now, Beasty, you’re so quick to protest, but it’s clear you’re in desperate need of something,” he taunts.
“Yeah, to rip your head from your body and spit down your throat,” I growl back.
Riall’s smile grows even wider. “I’d much prefer you to swallow, Beasty,” he quips, and I wish I could strangle him with his own conceit.
I parry as he advances, but just as we get started, he backs off. He’s toying with me, poking me for weaknesses both physically and mentally. He wants an opening past my defenses.
I refuse to give him one.
“Does the shit pouring out of your mouth usually work for the females you want to bed?” I ask, fixing him with a derisive scowl.
“I’ve had no complaints,” he states confidently.
“Maybe, but slaves paid to pretend they like it are never much for complaining in the first place, now are they?” I counter, but my vitriol falls on deaf ears.
Riall laughs harder as though he’s proud of my dig instead of offended by it like he should be. It’s aggravating. I’ve never been more sore and tired in my life, and this bastard looks like he could go days without needing so much as a break. Sweat drips down my back and chest from the hours I’ve spent being tested on different weapons and showing the various forms of combat I know. Riall appears to be fresh from the bathing chamber with crisp, dry togs and a bright smile I want to smack off his face but can’t because he’s too bloody brilliant.
He’s put me through it so far, and what’s odd is that I know more than I should. I haven’t said anything about it, but I’m using forms and tactics that I was never taught in the ludere. I doubt Riall knows. He probably thinks Tilleo is just that good at being a master, but I’ve been meeting Riall blow for blow all morning, and I have no idea how. He’s good. Incredible even. I’ve never seen anything like it, and yet I’m keeping up despite there being no logical explanation for it. He’s a seasoned member of an Order; I should have been stomped to dust ages ago. I’m certainly not winning, but I’m not exactly losing either.
Looking back, I realize that a similar thing happened when I first started training at the ludere. Somehow it was like I knew the drills they were hammering into us. I moved and absorbed it all as though it was dormant muscle memory. There’s a strange familiarity to the way Riall is pushing me to move, and it’s more than an instinctual reaction to his attacks. It’s as though we’ve learned the same techniques side by side, which makes no sense.
I don’t know why or how any of this is happening, but really that’s not a new sensation for me. I can’t count the times that a word or random thought has popped up in my mind, answering a question I never knew I’d asked. At this point, I’ve grown used to ignoring the unexplainable. The phantom pains, a grasp of techniques I shouldn’t know, the name of something, or a scent I can identify with no understanding of how. It’s all part of the list of things in my life that I can’t make sense of.
“Focus, Auset,” Riall barks at me, tapping me on the ass with his staff as he whirs around to avoid the answering blow I slash at him.
I pull in a deep, frustrated inhale and try not to give in to the anger that’s simmering inside of me. I’d prefer that he just hit me full out than pull his attacks and land irritating little jabs instead. It’s insulting, like he thinks I can’t handle it. Why do they want me to join their Order if they think I’m too fragile to withstand the blows?
I remind myself that getting angry isn’t going to help. Fighting mad is about as effective as fighting blind, a truth I know all too well. I’m letting Riall get into my head, and I need to stop. I plant my staff against the floor and vault at the Scorpion. He flips to the side, evading my leap, and swats at the anchored end of my bow. I land in the spot he just vacated and snap my weapon up so he can’t make contact with me. I try to use the momentum of his swing against him and sneak inside the reach of his staff, but it’s like he can read my mind, and he evades me once again.
“You know the fae I hunt aren’t going to pull their hits. You’re not doing me any favors by going easy on me,” I pant as we both analyze one another, searching for an opening and working out a plan of attack that hasn’t been tried yet.
