Page 95 of The Fifth Heir

His hand changed direction and caught my waist. He pulled me off balance, turning until my back rested against his chest.

His forearm crossed my middle. His other hand remained raised near my uninjured shoulder.

Even while demonstrating how completely he could trap me, he had arranged the hold so no pressure touched the wound.

“An attacker can mislead you,” he said beside my ear. “If you commit before he does, you give him control.”

The heat of him surrounded me.

I knew I was supposed to break the hold. He had shown me where his balance rested and how little pressure he needed to keep me against him. I should have dropped my weight, turned toward his elbow, or driven my heel into his foot.

Instead, I noticed the roughness of his forearm through his glove and the even rise of his chest against my back.

His breath warmed the loose hair beside my ear. Every point where we touched became suddenly, unhelpfully precise.

The runes turned red.

Torren released me immediately.

I stepped forward and faced him.

Neither of us looked at the walls.

“Again,” I said.

He hesitated before lifting his hands.

The training continued.

Torren taught me how to break a wrist hold, how to protect my ribs when I fell, and how to use an opponent’s forward movement instead of trying to overpower him. I failed more often than I succeeded, but every correction gave me something concrete to improve.

We stopped when the breakfast bell rang.

I heard it.

I pretended I didn’t.

“Enough,” Torren said.

“I can do another set.”

“No.”

“I’ve almost learned the turn.”

“You learned it twenty minutes ago.”

“Then I need to repeat it until it becomes instinct.”

“You’re dropping your right arm.”

“I’m compensating for your reach.”

“You’re protecting your shoulder.”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

He stared at me.