“So the key for dealing with them is speed and stealth over direct confrontation.”
“Exactly.” I move to the armor rack, pulling out a set in his size. “Try this.”
He strips off his shirt, and I immediately regret my suggestion.
My mouth goes dry as he pulls on the armored vest, adjusting the straps across his chest. When he reaches for the side buckles, I step forward instinctively.
“Here, let me?—”
My fingers brush his skin as I work the fastenings, and electricity shoots up my arm. He goes very still, his breathing shallow as I adjust the fit across his shoulders and torso.
“How’s that?” I ask quietly.
“Good.”
Our eyes meet, and the air between us crackles with the tension. I’m close enough to smell his scent—pine and leather and something uniquely him that makes my wolf whine with need.
“Lithia,” he starts, his voice low.
“We should test mobility,” I say quickly, stepping backbefore I do something I’ll regret. “Make sure the armor doesn’t restrict your movements.”
He nods.
I move to the center of the room, drawing one of the practice blades. “Come at me. Let’s see how the armor affects your speed.”
He draws his own practice weapon, settling into a fighting stance that speaks of years of training. We circle each other slowly, testing distance and reaction time.
“The leather’s heavier than I expected,” he says, making a quick thrust that I easily deflect. “But the balance is good.”
I counter with a low sweep that he blocks, our blades ringing together in the empty room. The sound is sharp and clean, echoing off stone walls.
“Not bad,” I praise.
“I’ve been practicing with a den full of warriors,” he replies, deflecting my attack. “Your people don’t believe in going easy on the outsider.”
The word “outsider” carries more weight than it should, and I find myself faltering. He takes immediate advantage, stepping inside my guard to place his blade at my throat.
“Point,” he says, but he doesn’t step back.
We’re close now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can see the flecks of darker gold in his amber eyes. His free hand comes up to rest on my waist, the touch burning through my clothes.
“You’re not an outsider,” I hear myself say. “Not anymore.”
“Lithia—”
“Again,” I say, stepping back before I lose what’s left of my control. “But faster this time.”
We resume sparring, but there’s a different energy to it now—less practice and more dance, each movement flowing into the next with increasing intensity. He presses forwardwith renewed aggression, forcing me to work harder to match his speed and strength.
I duck under a high slash, coming up inside his guard to drive my elbow toward his ribs. He twists away, grabbing my arm to spin me around until my back is pressed against his chest, his blade at my throat while mine is trapped uselessly at my side.
“Point,” he breathes against my ear, but neither of us moves.
His arm bands across my stomach, holding me against him, and I can feel every line of his body pressed to mine. The armor does nothing to hide his strength, the solid warmth of his chest against my back, the way his breathing has gone ragged.
“Kier,” I whisper, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
His grip tightens fractionally, and I feel something else pressed against the small of my back—hard and insistent and absolutely inappropriate for a training session.
