Thorne grunts as he swings his short sword down toward my head. I block the blow with a shield of light, then throw him off me. This dance we’re in sets me on fire and I lose myself in the flow of it. We thrust in and away from one another in a measured rhythm. Sweat drips down my back, but I ignore it. There’s only me and Thorne, and the magic that lights the room around us. I’m so honed in on the pulsing beat of the spar that I have no idea how much time passes. It could be hours, minutes, or days. All my focus is on Thorne and staying in this moment with him.

He jabs his short sword toward my stomach. I pivot to dodge it, but he’s able to spin himself behind me. A dagger of light presses against my throat, and Thorne tuts in my ear.

“This is exactly what tricked you last time, witchling,” he whispers, pulling me closer to him. The vibration of his voice sends shivers down my spine. I feel every inch of him pressed against me, and his labored pants heat the nape of my neck. It‘s similar to the night of the Solstice dinner, when I decided to give in to the aching need I feel around him before Silene, of all people, interrupted us. I want to press my backside against him and arch my back so my face is closer to his. Just like that night, I’m desperate to let the heat between us play out, consequences be damned. But I won’t—can’t—let him get under my skin, not right now. So I stomp on his foot, then whirl away, sending another dagger from the weapons rack hurtling toward his too handsome face, but he blocks it with ease. “I know you can do better than that,” he taunts me, eyes sparkling with mischief and thrill. If I looked in a mirror, I’m certain my eyes would match his.

“Just giving you a little break, princeling,” I taunt with a husky and breathy lilt to my voice that I’ve never heard before.