He could have sworn Brela choked on a breath before she glanced at him. “The fire breather wants to challenge the Night Terror?” She smiled, eyes tracing him like she had done in the markets. Only this time they lingered along his exposed chest and arms, as if she was trying to commit the swirls of ink to her memory. “How about we make it interesting?”
Cason grinned back and motioned to borrow Serill’s training sword. “What do you have in mind?”
Brela twirled her wooden daggers as she began circling closer to him, that damned tongue trailing her lips and teeth now that she was smiling. “We do have a tie to break still. Winner gets the throwing knife?”
“Oh, gods,” Boelyn whispered to Serill. “I thought you were kidding about them and that knife.”
Cason barely registered Boelyn’s comment, the sly grin that Serill gave him as he handed over the wooden sword, or the subtle elbow jabs that Farrah and Elias were trading in the distance. The only thing he felt was the sudden weight of that throwing knife tucked underneath the belt of his pants. He regretted that stupid desire to always be touching it, but there was no way Brela could know he had it on him. He just couldn’t let her see his hesitation.
“Deal.”
Without breaking stride, he met her in the middle of the courtyard where she had stopped with a smug grin. Though she was only a few inches shorter, he knew how to play the game with her.
So he stepped closer.
Close enough to where she had to lift her chin to keep eye contact. Close enough to hear her suck in a breath of surprise, even though she held her ground.
And then he leaned toward her ear, eyes still locked on hers as he breathed. “I have no intention of giving up your knife, but if you hold back like you did with Elias, I will not hesitate to humiliate you.”
Her heart skipped, and he could have sworn the shard in her collarbone twitched, but she just purred. “Dangerous words, for the dragon to challenge the shadow wolf. Are you sure you’re prepared for me?”
Cason stepped back, matched her feral grin, and raised his sword. “Let it burn.”
They became a blur of movement, and with the fire racing through his muscles, he knew neither of them were going easy. He didn’t know who struck first, only that for each blow he delivered, she returned with an equally aggressive jab. Not once did his wood hit her skin, nor did hers strike him. It was just dodging and wood clacking and fists connecting with body parts.
Brela was ferocious with the two daggers, spinning them in her hands whenever she saw a new opportunity to attack. But Cason always stopped the fake blade from striking true, using his fist or letting the sparking fire and lightning help his muscles change direction faster than she could stab.
Despite the shard in her collarbone dulling his senses, he could still feel his magic flaring. Warning him of new attacks, keeping him light on his feet. He felt every shift of her legs through the ground, heard each breath and hiss Brela released as she fought back. All while keeping part of his attention on those pale blue eyes and the white braid that danced behind her.
Evenly matched. That was the best way to describe the attacks and defenses they were trading. Because even with a portion of his attention on her beauty, he was going harder than he ever had before.
So was Brela. He knew because that grin of hers continued to get brighter with each move. Not because she was scheming—though that was still a possibility—but because she felt the same excitement that he did. She waslaughingthrough panting breaths, challenging him with every move.
Cason lost track of time as they moved around the courtyard. He sensed the divots in the ground from their feet. Heard their bodies cutting through air and the breaths gasping out of them. Felt the sweat drip over every inch of skin.
The only way this was going to end was when they both collapsed with exhaustion, and he had no intention of going down first.
Cason saw the first slip in her defense and he struck quickly. The left dagger went flying, but her grin remained.
Fuck.
Brela struck just as quickly, twisting and wrapping her last dagger around his sword. It sent both flying away. She’d anticipated his move, taunted him into attacking and thinking it was a victory. It caught him off guard, because in doing so, she also forfeited both of her weapons.
He should have known she didn’t need a blade to beat him, and that miscalculation cost him.
Her leg swept and he was falling in a flash, Brela pinning him to the ground with a panting laugh. His arms splayed—legs no longer responding—and Brela landed on top of him with force.
He’d lost.
Still, something about this compromising position didn’t feel like defeat.
Her braid had come undone completely, white-blonde hair plastered to her face and neck. Her eyes were just as wild as her hair, though he didn’t miss the fact that they continued to lock on his lips. Her muscles trembled with exertion and…restraint.
Heat burned in the very minimal space between their chests.
If Cason could move his arms, he would have wrapped his hand around her neck, slid fingers into her hair, and pulled her down into his kiss. If he could lift off the ground, he’d meet her halfway. With the way she was looking at him—with the same hunger he knew was glinting in his eyes—he couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t crushing herself against him now. Why there were still so many clothes separating them.
Brela’s hand lifted from where she had shoved his elbow into the ground. Shaking. Reaching down to his belt.
