Page 59 of Kiss the Filthiest King
“There’s no crown on her head yet,” Ryther corrects. “What do you say, queenspawn?”
“All right. But if it’s too much…”
“I’ll stop,” he vows. “Besides, it’s not like you can actually hurt me, with your pretty little manners and your slow, predictable blows.”
He’s trying to provoke me.
“Fine.” I retrieve the sword discarded against the wall. “Choose your weapon.”
He chuckles, removing his cloak and his doublet, and even the shirt underneath, until he’s standing in the simplest, thin, almost sheer layer of fabric—maybe linen, or silk. I notice a number of straps around his arms fitted with tiny vials holding potions, herbs, maybe iron, knowing him.
“Like I need one against you.”
He has the gall to smirk. I don’t even warn him, striking the arrogant ass. If he’d been wearing the kind of protective gear my club used to train in, I’d go for a more deadly blow, but I aim for his left arm. Thick as his biceps are, it’s a large enough target. I’m faster than ever, and my aim is true, but shadows cover the spot where his arm was moments ago, and my blade strikes only air. As I expected to hit him, I lose my balance a little, and before I can find my footing again, he appears right behind me, and with one single finger, pushes my shoulder.
I start to fall, wincing as I expect to land face first, but Ryther’s arm is around my waist, catching me.
I swat it away, my pride demanding I stand on my own two feet. “Dick.”
“Stop trusting your eyes. They deceive you. You’re used to certain movements, you expect specific reactions, and the folk will not fight like your little friends in the iron world. Feel it. Feel me.” He dissolves into shadow again. “Where am I? You know. You will always know.”
I don’t. Because I’m watching the shadows, and they gather around me, confusing me.
I make myself close my eyes, against all my instincts.
“That’s it. Feel the matter around you. Understand it. Where is my energy shifting to? Where will I appear?”
His voice comes from everywhere and nowhere at once. Another sense I can’t trust.
“Don’t think. Just hit. Now.”
I let my arm guide the next strike, thrusting straight, a little upward.
“Oh, god.”
I drop the sword in my hand, horrified.
Ryther blocked the blow with a wave of his hands, but not before my blade found its mark, slicing him from forehead to cheek, in one harsh, downward gash.
“I’m so sorry. Let me see.”
“Whatever for? It was a good blow. The first you’ve struck in hours.”
I’m on my tiptoes, my hands on his face, pushing his hair away for a better view of the wound. Even as I watch, his flesh knits itself together at an insane speed. I step back, awed. In a minute, it’ll be like he was never cut.
“You heal…crazy fast.”
“Faster than most,” he admits. “It was only a scratch, and not struck in iron. Let’s see if you can do better.”
It’s wild. He really, truly wants me to try to hurt him. And I think I must, if only to understand how I can do it.
Fighting Ryther at speed is like playing chess; moves have to be calculated. Faster, more instinctive, anticipating not his movement, but his essence.
He’s not even trying to hit me back, sticking to defense. And something tells me that it’s because he can’t. If he tries, he’ll succeed. And I’ll be dead.
He only nudges me back with an elbow when I enter his space, and I fly several paces, almost hitting the wall behind me. I land on my ass, realizing one thing. This man is terrifying.
I watch him put his hands on his hips and cock one eyebrow. “Is that all you’ve got?”
