Page 23 of The Devil's Trials

“Charm them with my dazzling personality?”

Noah stares at me.

“Okay, okay.” I roll my bottom lip between my teeth for a few seconds. “Uh—”

“And you’re dead.”

I scowl. “Tell me what to do, then.”

My tone is snippy and irritation prickles along the back of my neck, tempting me to shout at him and his incessant need to make me feel like a complete dumbass.

You’re doing a stellar job of that yourself, an annoying voice at the back of my mind taunts.

Noah rakes a hand through his stupidly perfect hair—seriously, I’d kill to know how long he spent in front of the mirror this morning, tousling it with just enough gel to make it look like that—before regarding me. “Plant your feet shoulder-width apart. You want a sturdy stance. One that’ll give you solid grounding when someone comes at you.”

I follow his instruction, shuffling my feet a bit on the mat until my stance feels good. “Like this?” I glance up from the new pair of shoes Mom sent me to find him watching closely, utterly focused on me.

“Hmm,” he hums in approval, stepping close enough his breath skates across my cheek. “You should enjoy this next part.” There’s a glint of something I could easily mistake as amusement in his gaze. “Hit me.”

I can’t help the grin that twists my lips. “Care to provide any more direction than that?”

He shakes his head. “I need to see your instincts in action before I can correct them.”

My eyes narrow, my dominant hand twitching at my side. “What makes you think they’ll need correcting?”

Noah shrugs. “By all means, show me I’m wrong.”

I curl my hand into a fist and let it fly toward him without hesitation. He blocks it easily, effortlessly catching my fist in his hand. I suck in a breath at the impact, gritting my teeth as he makes no move to release me.

“Sloppy,” he chastises. “And you lost your stance the second you started swinging.” He uses his grip on my fist to push me back, proving his point as I stumble a few steps.

I correct my footing, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. I didn’t expect this to be easy, but it’s dawning on me more by the second how wildly out of my element I am. It’s going to take more than a few extra sessions to get up to par with my training.

“Try again,” he directs.

I rear back as if to throw another punch at him.

“Stop.” When I freeze, he comes around me and stands at my back, gripping my hips and making my next breath halt halfway up my throat. “You need to fix your footing,” he says, using his foot to nudge my stance back into place. “You’re off balance.”

“That’s kind of the understatement of my year,” I mumble as his fingers warm my skin through my leggings.

He doesn’t laugh. “So channel that. Use it to fuel your determination instead of allowing it to be what holds you back.”

“When did you add ‘motivational speaker’ to your resume?”

That earns me a short chuckle as his grip on my hips tightens. “Focus. You need to be more in touch with your body. Besides an obsidian dagger, it’s going to be your best weapon.”

His words elicit a shiver in me, and I swallow past the dryness in my throat before speaking next. “How do you suggest I do that?”

“Close your eyes.” When I start twisting toward him, he holds firm and adds, “Trust me.”

It takes me a few seconds to accept that and follow his direction, letting my eyes fall shut. “Now what?”

“Tell me what you feel.”

Talk about a loaded fucking question.

“What do you mean?” I question in a small voice.

---