“Getting distracted, sweetheart?” he murmurs, quiet enough that only I can hear, and there’s an edge to the question that makes my skin prickle.
“You wish,” I mutter back, and dig my heels in, stopping my backward momentum.
I push hard against his left side, dropping my weight and driving with my legs the way my instructor taught me. He redirects, turning my momentum against me with that infuriating efficiency, but I’m ready for it this time. I pivot with the redirection instead of fighting it, using his own force to spin us both ninety degrees.
His eyebrows lift. Impressed, maybe. Or just reassessing.
“Careful,” he says, and there’s something almost like respect underneath the warning.
“Don’t patronize me, you dick,” I spit out, and he rolls his eyes.
We circle within the tape with our hands locked on each other’s forearms, each of us testing for weakness in the other’s stance. The crowd noise fades to a distant hum as my entire world narrows to the grip of his hands, the focus in his dark eyes, the way this feels exactly like every argument we’ve ever had.
There’s the same electricity crackling in the air between us, the same absolute refusal to give an inch of ground, the same bone-deep knowledge that neither of us will back down no matter what it costs, because backing down has never been in either of our vocabularies. That was always our problem. We were both too stubborn, too competitive, too willing to burn everything to the ground rather than let the other person claim victory.
“Sixty seconds,” someone calls out, and the crowd cheers, but neither of us breaks eye contact.
My arms are burning now, the muscles in my biceps and shoulders screaming with sustained effort, and sweat is sliding down my spine in a way that reminds me this dress was absolutely not designed for physical combat. The slit up the side is giving me mobility, at least, but I’m acutely aware that one wrong move could turn this into a wardrobe disaster in front of half the town.
“You could just concede,” Dominic says, and underneath the taunt I catch a thread of genuine concern that irritates me more than the taunt itself ever could. “No shame in it, Bennett. You’ve made your point.”
“I have never conceded anything to you in my entire life.” I shift my weight and push again, harder this time, testing a different angle. “I’m sure as hell not going to start now.”
“Stubborn as ever.”
“Look who’s talking.”
Ninety seconds. Two minutes. The crowd is getting louder now, more invested in the outcome, but their voices barelyregister through the blood pounding in my ears. We’re locked in a contest that feels much bigger than a charity demonstration. It’s the continuation of a war that started when we were eighteen and stupid and so convinced we were right that we destroyed everything we might have been to each other.
I need to end this. I need to win.
So I stop pushing.
The sudden absence of resistance throws him off, his body so attuned to countering my force that its disappearance creates a split second of imbalance. I use that split second to step in close, closer than the game requires or allows or makes any kind of tactical sense.
My chest presses against his. My hips against his hips. I look up at him through my lashes and let my expression shift into something softer, something inviting. I let my lips part just slightly. Let him think I’m about to do exactly the kind of stupid thing we used to do back when we were young and reckless and utterly incapable of staying away from each other.
His breath catches and his grip loosens on my arms. His mouth opens slightly like he’s about to devour me the way he used to, full of strength and want. His eyes take me in, not as angry as usual. This time they’re tinged with a different kind of aggression. He wants me. Badly.
His weight shifts backward, just a fraction, just enough, and I hook my ankle behind his and shove him with everything I have.
He stumbles out of the circle, catching himself before he falls, and the crowd erupts into cheers and laughter and scattered applause. Triumph floods through me, hot and bright. I catch sight of a blonde in a red dress near the front staring at me with an expression of pure scandalized horror, like I’ve committed a felony in front of witnesses.
Worth it. Absolutely worth it.
I walk past Dominic on my way out of the circle, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm, and lean in just enough to murmur near his ear. “That’s one for me,” I say. “Finally.”
His expression cycles through shock, fury, and something that looks almost like reluctant admiration. I file the image away to enjoy later, then grab my heels from the table and push through the crowd toward the exit.
The adrenaline is already starting to crash, leaving me shaky and too warm, and I need to be anywhere that isn’t within arm’s reach of Dominic Midnight before my brain catches up to what my body just did.
The gymnasium doors swing shut behind me, and the hallway stretches out ahead, dim and quiet compared to the noise of the gala. My footsteps echo on the linoleum as I walk, the familiar squeak of bare feet on waxed floors pulling at memories I’ve tried to keep buried.
“Bennett.” His voice bounces down the hallway, sharp with frustration. “Stop.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” I call back over my shoulder without slowing my pace, then add, unable to resist, “Other than congratulations on the loss. Really impressive performance out there.”
His footsteps are faster than mine, longer, eating up the distance between us, and he catches up in a few strides and moves in front of me, blocking my path. His chest is heaving under that dress shirt, and there’s a flush across his cheekbones. The sight of him this undone sends a hot rush of satisfaction through me.
