Bale huffs, a slightly mocking bend to his lips. “You don’t need to know how to fight a dragon. You need to know how to fight things your own size and strength.”
“You want to shrink, then?”
His smile turns more genuine. “Cealastra made me this way.” He transfers his blade to his nondominant hand.
My eyes narrow. “Don’t you dare.”
“I give the orders here.”
My mind jumps back to my earlier thoughts about our balance of power. Or imbalance. I lift my chin. “A weretiger isn’t my size or strength. A werebear is even worse.”
A sudden wave of shadows spills from him, the inky outline of a huge dragon nearly taking form.
I arch a brow. “Looks like your dragon wants to come out to play.”
Something flickers in Bale’s expression as he draws the darkness back inside. “You don’t want to play with him.”
“Why not?” I cock my head. “Afraid of me?”
His lips twitch. “You’re lucky I’m in charge and not the animal in me.”
My legs turn heavy, slowing my footsteps. The unexpected purr in his voice drags like a weight through my belly. “Why is that?” I ask.
“Because I let you be who you want to be. He wants to snatch you up and lock you in a tower for safekeeping.”
My jaw slowly drops. “Let me?” I say hoarsely.
His eyes narrow. “Figure of speech.”
I manage to keep slowly circling without tripping over my own feet. “Dragons are natural hoarders.”
“We only keep the good stuff,” he promises in a husky voice.
A shiver chases his words through me. “You chose me for the Elite Wing. Not exactly the safest job,” I point out.
“Which is why we train.”
I can’t argue with that. “And we can start as soon as you stop patronizing me.” I look pointedly at his sword, and he reluctantly switches his blade back to his dominant hand.
“Satisfied?” he asks.
Not in the least. The flirtatiousness of our exchange terrifies me.
Instead of answering, I attack. Bale parries easily, and I counter his simple reflexive move with an aggressive strike that drives him back a step. I try going all in immediately, wanting to force that thunderclap of power and speed inside me, but after a flurry of hits, I know it’s not going to happen. I back off, reassessing.
“Not scared enough to unlock your beast yet?” Bale mocks.
I scowl. That abrupt heightening of my senses, focus, and strength usually needs real danger in order to come out in me—and it doesn’t always last. “Stop sparring like I’m made of glass, then we’ll see what happens.”
His features harden. “How about you do better when you’re not on the brink of death?”
“Do fucking better,” I growl, slashing at him. “I’m sick of hearing that.”
He easily dodges my messy hit. “Not fucking that,” he growls back.
My nostrils flare, dragging in his scent of hot wind and dry leaves. Slowing my breathing, I consciously settle my emotions and launch into a more controlled attack. My double blades hum through the air and clang against Bale’s with a cadence that gradually speeds up. Faster, harder, the rhythm of battle rings in my ears. The more aggressive Bale gets, the better I fight. My steel becomes a blur—a whirlwind of hits, twists, and thrusts.
Bale’s still always one step ahead. He spins out of a sudden deadlock and sweeps around, knocking me over. I barely scramble up and away from what would probably be a killing blow in a real confrontation. Bale’s on me again in seconds. His next hit vibrates up my arm as I block a strike that nearly knocks my sword from my hand.
