“Now,” he said, “to avoid the self-stabbing issue.” His hand skimmed up under my flannel shirt, and I gasped. He briskly unsheathed one of my knives and dragged it along his palm. No blood welled on his skin. “These are for practice,” he explained, handing it back to me.

He made me draw the knives from the sheaths and strike out. Standing. Sitting. Squatting. Lying down. On my hands and knees. With my eyes closed. After spinning me around in circles to make me dizzy. With all the lights turned off. He made me erect the tent and lie inside while he attacked from the outside.

An hour later, the tent was destroyed. My flannel shirt was ripped. I had a swollen red spot on my cheekbone, courtesy of his elbow, and Malachi had a bump on his forehead, courtesy of my knee.

“One more time?” he invited. A drop of sweat fell from his chin.

“I have to go in a few minutes, but what the hell.”

“Do you have a position you’d like to try?” he asked politely.

“From behind, maybe? I need more practice with that.”

We stared at each other. Heat suffused my cheeks as I considered the double meaning of our conversation. Was Malachi aware of it, too? Did he care?

He didn’t give me any hints. “Good choice,” he finally said. “Remember, keep your arms close to your body. If they’re out to your sides, that’s an invitation for me to strip you of the weapon.”

“I know,” I said, turning my back to him. “But thanks for the reminder.”

The space behind me filled with predatory silence. I closed my eyes, focusing on my hands, my aching muscles, the hairs on the back of my neck, which would warn me of his movement. I strained to hear him breathing, to picture his body behind mine, closing in. I wondered if he was watching me now, and what he was thinking.

And then I heard it, the tiniest plop of a drop of sweat on the mat that told me where he was—and that he was moving. I didn’t wait for him to attack me. I attacked him. I whirled around, dropping low, and plowed into his legs, drawing a knife and sliding it along the backs of his knees, hard enough to have sliced his tendons if my blade had been sharpened. And he knew it, because he let himself fall backward, but he caught me by the shoulders and dragged me down with him.