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"No."

"Scared."

"You're repetitive."

"Still here." Rhyven exhales through his nose. Then takes position. Victory.

Fourth round. Different. I stop trying to overpower him. Impossible. I stop trying to match speed. Stupid.

I watch. Shoulders. Hips. Weight. Everything he has spent weeks teaching me. Rhyven steps. I move before the attack. His eyebrow flicks. Good. Again. He feints. I don't bite. Better.

I attack. He redirects. I turn with it. His hand catches mine. I slip free. He reaches for my shoulder. I duck beneath. For one beautiful second I'm behind him.

I strike. He turns fast enough to catch my wrist. "Better." Praise. Almost. I grin. He sees it.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Get pleased."

"Too late." I attack again. This time Rhyven anticipates. He catches my arm. Turns. Uses my momentum. And suddenly my back hits his chest.

Hard. Not painful. Just enough to knock the air from me. His arm locks across my middle. My wrist trapped in his other hand. My body pressed against his. Oh. Heat. That's the first problem. Rhyven is warm. Far warmer than he has any right to be. His chest rises against my back. His forearm is firm across my stomach. My shoulder fits beneath his chin. His breath touches the side of my head. This is a legitimate combat hold. I know that. My body apparently does not. I freeze. One second. Maybe less. Rhyven notices. Of course. His grip doesn't tighten. Doesn't loosen. Then his mouth moves closer to my ear. "Still scared, Vaelith?"

Fuck. A shiver runs down my spine. Tiny. Involuntary. Humiliating. Rhyven goes still. He felt it.

Oh, he absolutely felt it. No. I refuse. If I have to suffer, so does he. I turn my head. Just enough. His face is close. Far too close. My cheek nearly brushes his. Gold eyes shift toward mine. "Of you?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Good. I smile. "I think Sunday answered that." There. Rhyven's breathing changes. Barely. But I'm pressed against his chest. I feel everything. Oh. Oh, that's interesting.

His voice lowers. "Did it." Not a question. Not quite. My heart kicks. No. Stay focused.

"Careful, Corvell."

"About?" His breath touches my ear again. Gods. I hate him. I tilt my head slightly.

"You keep holding me like this..." A pause. "People might start thinking you like me." Silence. Absolute. Beautiful. For the first time since I've known him, Rhyven Corvell freezes. Not dramatically. Half a second. Maybe less. But I feel it. Every muscle behind me stills. His grip changes. Not tighter. Aware.

Victory rushes through me. Then his voice comes. Low. Controlled. "People think lots of stupid things."

I smile. "That wasn't a no." And move. Drop weight.

Turn wrist. Hook ankle. Shift hips. Everything at once. Exactly the opening he taught me to find. Rhyven realizes too late. His balance goes. I twist. He falls. But his hand catches my waist instinctively. Of course. So I go down with him. Rhyven hits the mat. I land on top of him. Hard enough that both of us lose breath. Then— nothing.

My palms are against his chest. One knee beside his hip. The other between his legs, planted against the mat. His hand is still around my waist. His other arm lies beside his head. Dark hair fallen across his forehead. Golden eyes staring directly into mine.

And for once...Rhyven does absolutely nothing. No reversal. No correction. No sarcastic comment. Nothing. His chest rises beneath my hands. Once. Twice. I can feel his heartbeat. Fast. Not wildly. Faster than normal. Oh. I look at his mouth. Mistake. His lips are slightly parted from the fall. His breathing warm between us. I remember Sunday. The wall. His face approaching mine. Four bells. You already know that's not what stopped me. My pulse stumbles. Then Rhyven's eyes drop. To my mouth. Only once. Then back. There. I saw it. No pretending. No Nyra explaining. No one else noticing. Me. I saw it. Something warm and dangerous settles low in my stomach. I lean closer. Barely. Not enough. Just enough that Rhyven notices. His fingers flex against my waist. Oh. This is an extremely bad idea.

Which makes what I say next even better. "Now..."

His eyes hold mine. "...I win."

For one second nothing. Then Rhyven's mouth curves. Slow. Small. Dangerous. "Apparently." I push away. Stand. Immediately. Before I do something stupid. Before he does. Before the bells decide to save us again.

I walk toward my water. Do not look back. Do not look back. Do not— I look back. Obviously. Rhyven is still on the mat. Not long. One second. Maybe two. But Rhyven Corvell— Chief Wings Officer. Infuriatingly controlled man. The person who has thrown me onto the floor more times than I can count— is still lying there. Looking at the ceiling. Oh, gods. I did that.

Then he sits up. Runs one hand through his hair. Stands. Composure returns. Mostly. He looks toward me. "Again."

I nearly choke on water. "What?"