Page 67 of Blood Beneath the Snow

The mask hid his face and the voice distortion kept me from hearing any hint of emotion in his words as he said, “Sometimes youmake sacrifices for the things you care most about. Even when the sacrifice is becoming a weapon.”

We sat in the shared quiet until the fire burned to embers and I was left to wonder what—or who—the Hellbringer cared enough about to kill entire legions.

17

“Again.”

“But I’m tired,” I gasped, sweat making my palms slick.

The Hellbringer was making me work at hand-to-hand combat. I hated it. It was evident he had been training for years and I had only been training for days. It didn’t take me long to learn beneath the dark leathers was a man built of pure muscle. Every hit he allowed me to land felt like my fist was connecting with solid rock.

“Will your brothers care?” he asked, easily dodging my next sloppy punch.

I could see the smirk Björn would level at me if I said I was tired while he pummeled me with his fists. He wouldn’t stop; he would light his knuckles on fire before he swung again.

The thought of my brother’s flames ignited a blaze within me. I gritted my teeth and lunged again.

My fist connected with nothing but air and my center of balance lost its hold, sending me stumbling toward him. The air left my lungs in a moment of panic and I stretched my hands out to catch myself. But before my palms connected, a hand wrapped around my shoulder, catching me mid-fall and wrenching me back to my feet.

My jaw shook a bit as I realized the Hellbringer had kept mefrom face-planting. “This is embarrassing,” I hissed under my breath. I half hoped he wouldn’t hear.

He did. “You have no reason to be embarrassed. I am your teacher. The point is for you to get better. That won’t happen immediately.” He took his defensive stance once more. “Again.”

As I squared my shoulders, I cursed myself silently for caring what he thought. He was right—he was my captor, nothing more.

So why did he make me nervous?

Don’t be an idiot. He makes you nervous because youwantto hear him call youprincessthese days. If falling for him is your worst nightmare, you’re standing on the edge of a precipice.

The thought made me want to cry or hit something. Either would do.

I centered myself, drawing in the virulent emotions raging around me. Drawing a steadying breath, grinding my boots into the floor.Never fight angry.Maybe there was truth in his words.

Left, right, step, step, duck, turn, right, left. I almost laughed aloud when the flurry of a step-ball-change aided me in keeping up with his breakneck pace. My movements flowed like water through a river and suddenly I knew why it was so apparent the Hellbringer loved doing this, loved fighting. Because when my fists connected with his abdomen, one after the other, the pain and exhaustion didn’t matter anymore. Only the dance.

My success surprised me enough that I pulled back from him, from the exercise. I stared at my hands. “I did it,” I said. I glanced up at him, wide-eyed. “I did it.”

He nodded. “You did.”

Was he smiling behind the mask?

Why do you care if he’s smiling?

I stifled the thoughts that came next. I didn’t want to hear them.

He sheathed his sword and removed his gloves, tucking them into a pocket while he undid the fastenings of his armor. But Ireached out and grabbed his arm, pulling his now bare hand toward me.

He stilled, and I felt the flush creeping up my cheeks as I examined his palm. “Why didn’t you have a healer look at this?”

The two lines from where he’d caught my sword on our first night together were still there, an angry red. The wounds were sealed, but as I traced my thumb absentmindedly along the lines of his palm, he flinched and pulled back from me. Maybe they still hurt.

He curled his hand into a fist. “Haven’t had time.”

The reality of what I’d done—caressing the Hellbringer’s hand—hit me. The memory of my dream resurfaced with full force once again, and for a moment I was caught up in wishing his hands would wrap around my waist and draw me closer to him.

I chewed my lip, turning away to remove my own armor, now that we were apparently finished sparring for the night. Ignoring the way my own hand tingled, like I’d been zapped by one of the harmless jellyfish in the southern sea.

I didn’t ask about his hand again.

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