I grab one of the wooden practice swords laid out near the wall, then mount Anassa. She tolerates that much, at least, and it’s becoming easier. But we haven’t gotten any better at the rest of it.
She’s too hot headed, too independent. Every time I touch her, I slam up against that blockade. She’d rather gnaw off her own tail than let me guide her movements.
Practice goes predictably. Hit. Fall. Hit. Fall. Hit. Fall.
Every time I hit the ground, I find Stark’s eyes on me. He’s not smiling—I doubt the man is capable of such a frivolous expression—but I can his amusement pierces through his glare all the same. He’s absolutelydelightedthat I’m eating dirt.
The ground rushes up to meet me for the fourth time this training session.
I grunt, landing badly on my arm and my hip but lessening the impact with a bit of a roll. Sand kicks into my eyes and mouth, and I spit, blinking rapidly.
“Up, princess!” Stark growls at me. “Or are you too delicate for combat?”
I hiss under my breath and dig my fingers into the sand, curling my other hand tight around the practice sword. Anassastands beside me, staring as always, making absolutely no move to help me.
Shutting my eyes briefly, I focus on the pain in my body, wrestling it under my control, hissing breaths through my nose.
Use it. That’s what Igor always preached. That’s what my life has taught me.
In pain, there’s power.
Although I’d feel pretty powerful if my hateful direwolf ever used any of her healing magic on me. Anassa has continued to deprive me of that, deigning to patch up my injuries only when she wants to—which has been, like the rest of her, totally unpredictable.
I get up. The practice sword is impossibly heavy in my hand, but I lift it all the same. The scream in my shoulder only makes me more determined. My arms are trembling from the exertion.
Blood trickles from my split lip, the thick iron taste mingling with the gritty sensation of sand on my tongue.
The drill should be simple. Ride in a circle while deflecting incoming strikes from other mounted riders. But without Anassa’s cooperation—more likewithher downright rebellion—every movement is a battle.
She keeps deliberately shifting at the wrong moments, throwing off my balance.
I keep falling, yes. But I’m also being whacked over and over with heavy practice swords. It feels like my entire body is one massive bruise.
Back and mounted again, I sense Anassa’s emotions again for the first time in a while. It’s a sickening trickle of dark, borderline feral amusement. She knows she has me trapped between her teeth, and she’s having fun tasting my fear before swallowing me down.
We gallop together. She shifts suddenly. I’m focused on trying to stay mounted. Cold wind whips at me. The weightof the sword and my own body drags at me. The thundering pounding of paws riots in my ears.
Yet still, I hear him. Too late.
“Guard up!” Stark shouts, voice cracking like a whip.
Perielle thrusts toward me and her practice sword impacts my ribs with a vicious smack, sending a white-hot fissure of pain through my already brutally bruised torso.
I choke and double over, eyes tearing up, clinging weakly to Anassa’s fur. The sword tumbles from my hand as I clutch my side, squeezing my eyes shut and focusing on not passing out.
Heavy paws thud over the sand beside Anassa.
I force my eyes open, baring my teeth.
“I told you to put your fucking guard up,” Stark says, his voice dangerously low. His dark hair curls down into his eyes in a way that would look charming on any other man, but does nothing to soften the murderous look he’s giving me.
Before I can even open my mouth to defend myself, he’s slid down Cratos, fisted his huge hand around my arm, and yanked me off Anassa. I come tumbling down inelegantly, his hand still tight on my bicep.
Anassa watches all of this with what I can only think of as a smirk.
Then he reaches down with his other hand to the exposed hem of my shirt, and in the blink of an eye, grabs it and yanks it up to just before the bottom of my breasts. The cold winter air is stinging on my skin.
My face flushes hot and I try to wriggle away from him, yanking my arm, but he’s an immovable force. “Get your hands off of me,” I grit out.
