I glance over my shoulder, pulse hitching even before I see him.
Dante leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, dark hair tousled, his black tunic fitting snugly over broad shoulders. There’s a familiar glint in his eye, but something sharper beneath it, and when his gaze drops briefly to my chest, then back up, I realize he’s noticed more than my warm-up.
“You’re slipping,” he says, pushing off the frame, his voice smooth but edged. “Endurance like that will only get you halfway through a fight.”
I smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m climbing castle stairs in full armor.”
“I know ways to strengthen your muscles,” he adds, circling me now. “If you’d let me show you.”
Sir Holden, no doubt sensing what’s coming, places the collection of weapons in my hands before letting out a grumble and heading for the door. “I’ll be outside, trying not to roll my eyes.”
He shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone with Dante’s lingering stare.
“You’re suddenly the expert when it comes to my training?” I challenge, picking out a dulled dagger to practice with, one that isn’t sharp enough to pierce skin.
“You could say that I’ve been studying your moves.” He takes a matching dagger from the collection and places the rest of the weapons on a nearby stool.
“I haven’t had any complaint about my moves before,” I say, taking a defensive stance as he nears.
“No complaints, Highness. Merely… suggestions.”
Without warning, he lunges. I pivot, but he’s already grabbing for my waist, spinning me before I can find my footing. His grip is sure but not bruising, his hands dragging heat along my sides. I twist free, elbowing his ribs, and dart a couple of steps away.
“You’re distracted,” he taunts.
“You’re smug,” I snap, pouncing forward to sweep his leg.
He jumps it, damn him, and catches my arm mid-spin, yanking meclose.
For a heartbeat, our bodies are flush—his chest rising and falling against mine, our breath shared between barely an inch of space.
“You’re slow to react,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking to my mouth.
“Maybe I just don’t want to bruise that pretty face of yours,” I retort.
He chuckles as I shove off his chest, and we circle again. My body is awake now, alive in every tendon and nerve. I fake left, then duck, and jab the hilt of the dagger into his side. He stumbles back, catching himself with an arm, but he pivots quickly in a move that places him behind me, his dagger at my neck.
I decide to play dirty and push my ass into him. The distraction pays off, and when he hesitates, I grab his wrist and twist, twirling my body away as I disarm him.
He smirks and shakes his head, but it only takes a second before he ducks and rushes me, dodging my swiping blade, wrapping his arms around my waist and using the momentum to knock me off my feet.
I instinctively use a countermove, pinning my knees to hips and pushing one of his shoulders back until I’ve flipped him onto his back. Now my dagger is at his neck as I look down at him, my hair falling loose from my braid like a curtain over his face.
For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, chests rising and falling, breath mingling.
“Looks like I win,” I say.
His smirk returns, and he runs hot palms up my hips before caressing the curves of my ass. “I beg to differ.”
He’s right—I’m distracted when he slides his hand around my waist and spins us until he’s on top of me. His face is so close, his storm-grey eyes darker now, his mouth parted just slightly. My heart thunders, demanding things I don’t dare give into here.
He leans down, just enough that his nose brushes the side of mine, and my breath stutters. I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead, he lets out a sigh.
“We need to get ready for the dinner,” he says lowly, his voice rough.
I almost groan. I’m hungry now, but not for dinner.
He pushes himself to standing, then offers me his hand. Reluctantly, I take it, and he pulls me up, steady and close.
