He frowned. “You haven’t trained swords. You’re going to hurt yourself with that blade.”
“No, I’m going to stop you from tossing me into the sea, becausethatwould hurt me.”
“I disagree.” He was approaching far too quickly.
My pulse sped up. “I’ve always thought you were clever and strategic, but this is plain mad. If North or Callen were here, they’d tell you that.”
“Again, I disagree.”
Of course, because North wouldloveto see me torn to pieces by a shark, and Callen would probably just be curious.
He drew his sword, and I resorted to my favorite battle strategy: running.
Holding the sword in front of me so I wouldn’t stab myself, I took off for the stairs leading to the cabin. There were rooms to hide in—rooms much farther from the ocean than this deck.
A sailor appeared at the top of the steps, holding a heavy chest.
“Move!” I shouted.
He took in the scene, me running while Harthon gave chase, and chuckled.
Dammit.Sprinting past that stairwell, I searched for something to help me, some way to buy enough time to convince him this was an awful idea.
There.
The sails. I could climb them.
The back of my neck tickled.
I came to a hard stop and pivoted, swinging my sword in a wide, blind arc. Harthon easily dodged the strike, and I swung again. His blade met mine, my arm reverberating with the impact.
I yanked the weapon away, panting, trying to think of my next move. I didn’t know how to use a sword. What I did know was that Harthon wouldn’t strike me. His only goal was to disarm me so he could send me overboard. I only needed to hang on to this blade.
I feigned left before striking right. He sidestepped. I kicked at his knee. His leg met my foot with an abrupt block, and I slashed with the weapon again. Metal clanged as my blade came to a hard stop against his, and he lunged forward to grab my sword hand.
I danced back before he made contact.
A flicker of intrigue crossed his face.
“I’m calling on that heat, and it isn’t answering,” I informed him as we circled each other. It was true. Nothing was coming from that kernel in my chest except the draw to First Territory.
“Then you aren’t feeling threatened enough.”
All this time, I’d assumed he’d play defense. Wait for an opportunity to seize my weapon. Between one second and the next, he stripped me of that comfort.
Harthon rushed me, a mass of power and agility, swinging that sharp metal with unrelenting speed. A cry escaped as I clumsily brought my sword up to block his. Once. Twice. On thethird, my arms almost buckled. On the fourth, I fell to a knee, the hilt nearly slipping from my fingers. He lifted his sword again.
Screw this.
With a shout, I completely disregarded his next strike and dove at his knees. His blade sailed over my body, and I took him down. The moment I sat on his legs, I realized my mistake. Wooden planks spun into gray sky as he flipped us. He gripped my sword hand and twisted. The weapon fell free.
I screeched in pain.
Not because it’d hurt, but because it was the only offensive move I could think of.
Immediately, Harthon halted. When I whimpered, his brows crashed together. The concern almost made me feel guilty.Almost.
I rammed my forehead into his nose.
