“Thorne, tell me what the fuck is going on. Is this some weird chivalry thing? I don’t need to draw your blood to get back at you. It’s already healing. No big deal.” He only conjures small balls of light that whip toward me. I block them with my light shield, growing annoyed. They keep coming, an onslaught of tiny little pricks that don’t hurt but aren’t painless either. I quickly move from annoyed to angry. “What are you doing?” I ask, real ire in my voice now.

“I’m sparring with you until you draw my blood,” he growls, low and primal, then lunges at me.

I react instinctively, blocking his blows and becoming lost in the fight once more. We spin around one another, resuming the careful dance we know so well. He conjures lightning bolts to spear down from the ceiling at me, but I dodge them easily by tapping into the aether. I’m able to sense where they’ll strike. Swords and light clash, and the room becomes a cacophony of flashing lights and singing metal once more. There’s something feral about him; he stalks me like a predator. But there’s also unmasked lust in his eyes, a fury of attraction that he doesn’t try to hide. His jaw clenches and unclenches, and every so often I notice his nostrils flare as he takes deep inhales.

“Is that all you’ve got, witchling?” he taunts. “I thought you wanted to go all out. I could do this all day and not even break a sweat.” I bare my teeth and growl at him in a primal fury, the noise surprising me. But he only laughs. “There she is.” His eyes light with glee. “Let go and fight me.” He growls the last two words, matching my intensity. It only heightens the feral beast inside of me clawing to be let out.

I focus on the leyline running almost directly under this training room, pulling the energy of the aether into me. I lift every weapon off the rack and send them flying toward Thorne along with small discs of light. They hurl end over end in his direction, and his eyes widen in shock and surprise, but not fear. Never fear, not with him. Even as there are dozens of weapons spinning his way, his mouth quirks in a half smile. Inches before the weapons reach him, all but one tiny dagger halts in midair. It slices across his arm in the exact place he wounded me, drawing blood but not cutting too deeply. Thorne laughs, loud and boisterous, his expression filled with something I don’t understand. I’m about to demand he tell me what’s going on, why he insisted I draw blood only to laugh at me, when his scent hits me.