I want to see him bleed.
I had him. He was retreating. Somehow, I was winning. I didn’t hold back. My strikes were even more vicious, narrowly missing their targets.
Then, a quick blow behind my calves. Not with his blade, but his foot.
Shit. The fight went from far too fast to unfathomably slow as my body fell. I collided with the floor and let out a huff as the fall winded me. I opened and shut my eyes, the haze of battle clearing as I tried to refocus.
Raphael towered above me, feet planted on either side of me.
The righteous anger was gone. Instead, humiliation scalded me.
He’d been toying with me, letting me think I was winning. Then he’d tripped me. How could I think I could best a several-hundred-year-old vampire who had seen combat who knew how many times? I’d fallen for such an obvious trap, blinded by the anger, the desire to make him pay, even though this was just a training exercise.
“Sloppy.” He offered me a hand up.
I wanted to take it, but something made me hesitate. I shoved both palms into the packed dirt, feeling every grain against my skin, and pushed myself up. I was being childish, and the eye roll Raphael met my display with said as much.
“You’re not teaching me anything,” I snapped. I’d thought burning off some energy would make me feel better, but instead I felt even worse.
“You’re not willing to learn.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I’d picked up the sword, and I’d fought even though I had no chance. I had let myself be humiliated so he could make his point, and he said I wasn’t willing?
He took a step closer. “No, you’re not. Your anger is here, your ego is here, butyou—the woman I know who has an analytical mind, a strategic mind—is completely gone. The woman who is a survivor, who faced down opponents stronger than her and triumphed,that’sthe one I can teach.”
That woman died.
The response came quickly in my head. But I forced myself to bite back the words. Strategic, analytic,survivor. I tried toremember what it felt like to inhabit those roles. My white-knuckled grip on the blade eased. My shoulders loosened as I forced them back and down. I lifted my chin.
“There she is,” he murmured.
It was hard to keep my posture loose when he looked at me like that. “Teach me now,” I challenged.
Raphael switched his grip to the other hand, the movement little more than a flick of his wrist. “Look at my arm.” He braced his now empty hand, the sleeve rolled up. The muscles of his forearm were clearly defined, honed from centuries of practice. No, not practice. Of battle itself.
Those same arms had held me, more than once.
“I’m looking,” was all I managed.
He flexed a different way, muscles relaxing slightly while still holding strength. “This is how you need to hold the blade. It’s not like a dagger you keep close to your body like nails. It’s an extension of your arm. If you hold it too tightly, you’ll tire your arm out long before the rest of your body. You won’t even be able to grip it after a few minutes of battle.”
On reflex, I rolled my arm around. It did ache, though it was already fading.
“Try without the blade first,” he instructed.
I swapped hands and held out my arm between us, wrist up. Raphael turned so we were shoulder to shoulder. He ran a finger from my elbow to my wrist and I tensed.
He slid me a glance. “Like that, but not so much.”
I hadn’t meant to tense, but I didn’t say that. Did he feel the bolt of energy that seemed to slam into me every time he touched me? As always, his expression revealed nothing. I tried to mirror it, concentrating on loosening.
“Like this?” I asked.
He shifted his attention to my wrist, fingers easing it back. “Better. Remember how this feels.”
I nodded, trying to commit the sensation—of my muscles, not his touch—to memory.
“Now try with the blade.”
