I look up through my lashes, trying not to move my head out of position as Fox steps back to check his adjustments. His eyes meet mine and he frowns. “You’re not breathing.”
The moment he says that, I realize I’mnotbreathing. I choke, and gasp out a long breath, and immediately fall out of the stance Fox has been adjusting for the last five minutes.
“You have to breathe,” Fox deadpans.
“No, really? I hadn’t realized.”
I close my eyes and, despite my discomfort, try to keep my breath even as Fox repeats the process of adjusting my stance—feet, knees, hips, torso, arms, grip, and chin. When he’s finally finished, he steps back to look at me again, like an artist surveying their work.
I stay perfectly still, waiting expectantly for him to say something. He doesn’t, and after a moment I realize I’m probably waiting for praise that’s never going to come.
“Looking good!” Jett calls from where he’s now sitting on the fence beside Eugene, both of them watching us intently.
I glance over to flash both of them a wide, genuine smile as Jett gives me two thumbs up. “Thank—” I begin, but my words are cut off by my own startled intake of breath as Fox’s hand whips out and he grips my chin between two callused fingers. He turns my head away from Jett and back into position, facing him.
His fingers linger on my face and I hold my breath, my gaze instinctively flicking up to meet his.
His eyes are so blue they’re nearly silver, and for half a second they’re locked with mine. I watch, fascinated, as the black centers widen, swallowing the pale blue until only a thin ring remains.
Then, just as suddenly, Fox drops his hand from my chin as if burned. He steps back and clears his throat. “Don’t get distracted.”
“Attack me.”
“Absolutely not,” I sniff, putting my hands on my hips. “Growl all you want, I’m still not doing it.”
It’s early morning, just after dawn, and Fox and I are once again standing on the grassy lawn behind the stables, practicing with the wooden swords. It’s obviously going to be a swelteringly hot day, because despite the early hour the air already feels thick and beads of sweat drip down the back of my neck, soaking my hair and making my short dress cling to my body like a second skin.
Fox also looks like the heat is getting to him. He’s shed his usual layers of protective armor, and is dressed casually in a white tunic top, open at the neck, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. I can see the outlines of his rippling muscles beneath hisshirt—something I would undoubtedly find more distracting if the man himself wasn’t being impossibly irritating.
Every day this week, Fox has spent every waking hour training me to fight, and the results have been…mixed. He’s undoubtedly a talented fighter, but his teaching methods aren’t very friendly.
I’ve learned Fox will talk quite a lot as long as he’s giving instructions or correcting me, but he never initiates casual conversation and I don’t think the man knows the meaning of the word “praise.” The closest thing I get to a “well done” is the occasional grunt or nod, and the only way I can tell if he’s satisfied with my progress is when we move on to something new.
For three days, he wouldn’t even let me touch the practice swords. We went through endless repetitions of footwork and basic movements—forward, back, parry, thrust—until my thighs burned and my arms trembled. It was as boring as it was frustrating, so I was excited when Fox finally said I was ready to try sparring. If only I’d realized my frustration had barely begun.
All day yesterday, Fox stood on the opposite side of the training yard, barking commands for me to attack him. Each time I swung my practice sword, he would sidestep at the last moment, leaving me to stumble as my sword met empty air.
“Try again,” he said over and over.
So I tried again.And again.
Over and over I lunged at him, and over and over he stepped out of the way, until my blood was boiling and the word “again” had started to lose meaning. Finally, after several hours and not a single successful hit, I gave up and threw my sword to the ground in aggravation.
“I’m not putting myself through a repeat of yesterday,” I tell Fox flatly, tilting my head back to hold his gaze.
Fox narrows his eyes. “You said you wanted to learn.”
“I did. I mean, I do! But you just keep dodging me. It’s not fair.”
He snorts. “Do you think fighting is fair?”
I roll my eyes. “No, but I assumed that sparring would mean actually fighting like I did with Jett.”
Fox raises a hand and runs it over his jaw, brow furrowing with tension. “He shouldn’t have fought with you like that.”
“Why not? They’repracticeswords.” I scoff, waving the wooden blade in the air. “The point is topractice.If you’re just going to keep dodging me I don’t see what I’m supposed to be learning.”
“You’re learning that you have to be faster to hit anything,” he growls.
