“We didn’t have a disagreement,” Gideon said. “He needed to let out some sap.”

“Sap?” she repeated.

His pointed look made Sarani blush.

Oh.

Their passionate interlude in the cabin must have sent him here to Gideon. It had very nearly sent her over the side of the ship into the frigid sea to cool her overheated blood, so she could empathize. But this? Choosing to be pummeled to oblivion? It seemed rather counterintuitive, not to mention barbaric.

Scanning his limp frame, Sarani winced at the bloodied state of the duke, tearing off a piece of her hem to wipe the blood away from the corner of his lip. Her fingers traced the edges of the sculpted lips that had devoured hers, and her breath caught, her own lips tingling in response.

She snatched her fingers away, fighting the tide of her blush with everything inside of her as her entire body started to hum with arousal…just from the one touch. She revised her earlier thought. Perhaps there was something to thrashing the lust out of one’s body. Or in Rhystan’s case, welcoming insensibility. She’d give anything to douse the emotions cresting inside her.

The attraction between them had always been their destruction, and so many years later, that appeared still to be true. Much like Rhystan, Sarani hadn’t been able to shut her eyes after she’d left his cabin. Her every nerve had been on fire. So when the cheers and hoots from the crew had drawn her topside, she’d been grateful for the interruption.

Once she’d seen what was happening and who was fighting, however, she hadn’t been able to move a muscle. Though his opponent’s upper body had been bare as well, her greedy eyes hadn’t strayed from Rhystan’s glistening, chiseled, shirtless form. She’d seen many men brawl before, but nothing came close to Rhystan’s predatory grace. While Gideon fought like a bear, Rhystan moved like one of the feral tigers native to Joor, all sinew and ruthless elegance.

She’d been mesmerized, reminding her of the times when she’d boxed with him in secret in Joor. In secret because her father would definitely not have approved of any man putting his hands on her person. While Sarani’s unusual eastern and western upbringing allowed her some liberties, she was still a princess of Joor. Rhystan had found her arguing about pugilism with her weapons master in one of the training centers, and when her instructor had outright refused for fear of the maharaja’s reaction, Rhystan had offered to demonstrate some basic strategies.

After showing her how to hold her stance, with feet shoulder-width apart and offering as little of her body as possible for a target, Rhystan had danced around her, fists raised to his chin. He hadn’t been as broad as he was now, but he’d still towered over her.