“I have,” Fox growled, sounding annoyed.
“When?” I demand, glancing at him. “I don’t remember?—”
I break off as he hooks a finger under his top lip and pulls it up to show me his teeth. Before my eyes they grow longer and sharper, then retract again.
I’m dumbstruck, but my hand flies to my throat, remembering how easily he pierced his teeth through my skin before…other things became more distracting. “I guess I didn’t realize. Can you show me more?”
“Not right now,” Fox mumbles
“Why? Can you do just one part of your body at a time, or could you be half a wolf if you wanted? I’m not afraid if that’s what you’re worried about, I just really want to see?—”
“Stop,” he nearly groans, cutting me off.
To my absolute shock, I see the color rise on his cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears turn distinctly red. I don’t know what he’s so embarrassed about, but I’ve never seen him blush before about anything, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Luka also looks like he’s trying not to laugh. His eyes shift out of focus in the way I’ve come to understand means he’s saying something in his head. Fox stiffens and aims a half-heartedpunch at the side of Luka’s face, but he ducks, grinning, then runs off to join another group.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Fox says, still looking slightly pink around the ears. “I thought you wanted to spar.”
“I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
Fox turns and makes a pointed beeline toward the other end of the field and I have no choice but to trail along after him. He finds an empty patch of grass and turns to face me, cocking his head in an expression that says:“Whenever you’re ready.”
I reach tentatively for the hilt of my actual sword, then pause. I’m used to using practice weapons, but we don’t have any.
Clearly thinking the same thing, Fox frowns. “Wait here.”
He turns and walks over to the nearest group of wolves. I watch him approach a tall woman, presumably asking to borrow some of their practice swords. While he talks to her, my eyes fall on the rest of the group and my jaw drops open.
The woman Fox is speaking with is the only adult in a crowd of little children who look no older than three or four. They’re standing in rows and seem to have been mirroring the movement of the woman who must be their instructor. Some children are still practicing, and I recognize the exercises instantly as the same ones Fox put me through when I was first learning to use a sword.
I tear my eyes from the children as Fox walks back toward me with two practice swords in hand. He tosses one to me and I catch it by the hilt, feeling its familiar weight settle into my palm. His eyes lock with mine, and he gives that slight nod I’ve come to recognize means:“Attack me.”
We circle each other, then I swing, Fox parries. He lunges, I dodge.
I remember how when we first practiced I couldn’t even hit him. Now, as we weave back and forth, I can tell it’s harder for him to evade me. He might not be putting in all his effort, but I don’t think he’s letting me win anymore, either.
We trade blows back and forth, until after a few minutes, I notice we’re falling into a rhythm—like dancers who’ve rehearsed the same steps too many times.
I’ve spent so much time with Fox at this point that I’ve recognized his biggest weakness: he can’t break from his patterns. He’s a superb fighter—probably one of the best here, if not the best. He’s objectively better than me, but that means he doesn’t think he needs to try very hard to win. I can see it now as we spar—the way his weight shifts before he strikes, the slight narrowing of his eyes before he feints. He’s falling into a predictable pattern.
I feint as if I’m going to do the same move I’ve been trying for a while, then duck and swing the other way. The wooden sword connects with Fox’s ribs with a satisfying thwack. His eyes widen, genuine surprise flashing across his usually composed face. A triumphant laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it.
He stares at me, the surprise on his face shifting into something darker, hungrier. A thrill races up my spine, electric and immediate. I suddenly want to bolt across the field, knowing he would follow—knowing he would catch me.
Suddenly, I hear a chorus of high-pitched cheers and whip around to find we have an audience. A semicircle of children has formed—the little ones sitting cross-legged at the front, some of the older ones standing behind with arms crossed, studying our movements.
Fox catches my eye, a sideways glance that acknowledges our unexpected spectators.
Thankful for the interruption, I flash a wide grin. “I think they want to practice too.”
I’m expecting Fox to ignore me, or at the very least say they’re too young to fight. What I am not at all expecting is for him to grin widely, dimple showing, and turn to the children with his wooden sword balanced casually across his shoulders. “Who wants a turn?” he asks, his voice lighter than I’ve ever heard it.
The young children don’t seem as bothered by speaking out loud as the adults are, and immediately clamber to join in.
