Page 186 of Emylia

Before I could ask what he meant, he moved.

A sweeping kick nearly knocked me off balance, but I flipped easily out of reach.

“Are you sure you want to stay in that?”

His eyes dragged down my body—slow, deliberate—clearly referring to the dress.

He knew exactly what he was doing to me and I hated him for it.

I rolled my shoulders and assumed my least provocative stance. Not that it would help. Not with the way he was looking at me. “Not particularly, but what choice do I have?”

He took a step closer, voice casual, but laced with wicked intent.

“I don’t mind if you take it off.”

I arched a brow. “Screw you.”

He smirked. “Suit yourself.”

Before I could move, his hand shot out. Fingers curled around the fabric of one of my skirts. With a swift yank, he pulled me off center—my balance gone in an instant—and I crashed into his chest like gravity had chosen sides.

Solid heat. Controlled strength.

And he’d done it as easy as breathing.

Damn it.

His voice dropped to a near whisper, the air between us taut.

“Still sure?”

I shoved hard against his chest, breaking the contact. Then, without another word, I yanked the dress over my shoulders and head and let it fall to the dirt.

My skin prickled against the morning air, but I was thankful I’d worn full-length pants and a cropped bra—something I could actually move in.

He was circling me now, slow and sure, like a predator ready to taste its prey.

“There she is,”he murmured, dark eyes gleaming. “Finally ready for a fight.”

He launched. Air brushed past me as I barely managed to parry his first strike. The force of it sent shockwaves up my arm. He didn’t give me time to breathe—his assault was brutal, relentless.

But I moved with him. Matched him.

Strike for strike. Step for step.

Then I saw my opening.

I twisted low and drove my elbow toward his chest. He caught my arm, faster than what should’ve been humanly possible, and twisted hard. Pain lanced through my shoulder as he used my momentum against me—and flung me.

My body slammed into the dirt, a grunt ripping from my chest as the wind left my lungs. Dust rose around me. The taste of it bitter on my tongue.

My fingers curled into fists, nails digging in–tearing up the dirt. I needed something to ground me. Something real. Anything to keep me from losing control.

Too late.

Rage tore through me, calling the icy depths of frost to my fingertips. Sharp, pointed, icicles spread across the ground, freezing everything in its wake, as I fought to control the barely-contained coldfire.

“Maalikai,” I warned, breath hitching. “Don’t.”

---