Page 153 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Oh, Arabella,” he murmured, his voice settling into that dangerously soft tone that shot heat through my core. “If you only knew how close I am to forgetting every restraint for you.” His breath brushed my lips, warm and taunting. “You want me to risk the Heirloom? All to hear you scream my name like you did that night—loud enough to rattle this entire citadel.”

“Your ego is staggering,” I managed, though my breath hitched.

His voice was low and as smooth as silk. “You like it.”

A current of want tore through me, forcing me to swallow hard. His gaze fell to my mouth, his own lips curving in a slow, knowing smile that made my pulse throb.

“As soon as we solve this little complication,” he said, voice roughening with every word, “you’ll find out exactly what happens when I stop playing the Dark Lord… and start being a man who can’t get enough of his wife.”

My heart slammed behind my ribs. Each syllable threatened to pull me closer, until I was practically leaning toward him, barely aware of the step I took forward. His grin flashed wickedly, like he knew he’d already won. Then he slipped back, letting a cold rush of air replace the warmth of his presence. The abrupt distance left me dizzy and furious at how badly I wanted him.

He was calling my bluff, I realized. But he was also admitting just how much I unsettled him. And that realization sent a dark thrill racing through my veins.

Kazimir smoothed his collar with one tug. “We have somewhere to be.”

“Where?” I asked, trying to steady my racing heart.

“Down.”

I rolled my eyes and followed him through the deserted corridors. The tension between us felt electric, but the chill of the damp air was a welcome shock to my flushed skin. Now and then, we passed servants who bowed or flattened themselves against the walls, seemingly eager to avoid the swirl of danger and frustration that followed us. I kept my gaze forward, ignoring the pit in my stomach that said I wanted more of him than I should.

We descended deeper still, the air growing colder and tinged with a mineral scent. At last, we reached a heavy iron door inscribed with runes. Kazimir pressed his palm to the center, and the door groaned open.

Beyond lay a cavernous chamber—larger than any training hall I’d seen—with natural stone walls and a rough-hewn floor. Weapons racks, battered practice dummies, and odd contraptions lined the perimeter, as if no one had tidied in months.

Kazimir lit torches along the walls with a flick of magic. The dancing light revealed half a dozen wooden-and-metal humanoid figures posed in eerie stillness, each clutching a real weapon.

“What is this place?” I asked.

He strode to the center of the cavern. “Preparation. With Solandris escalating, Auremar won’t rest until he’s pried you from my hands—or destroyed you so no one else can use your bloodline.”

I crossed my arms. “I handled Sir Darian.”

“You did. But a single knight-commander isn’t the king’s entire arsenal.” He gestured at the motionless figures. “These are keyed to attack you at increasing levels. They won’t kill you, but they’ll hurt—and they’ll teach you to survive. Magic alone might fail if it’s blocked, countered, or if you’re exhausted.”

The way his gaze flicked over me betrayed more worry than he meant to show. “These constructs aren’t me,” he said flatly. “No more excuses for hesitating. You’ll learn better footwork… and we avoid certain temptations.”

My pulse kicked at that reminder of what happened when we sparred alone. “So I’m practicing against wooden puppets instead of you?”

“They won’t make the mistake of flirting back.”

I studied him for a moment. “You’re worried.”

“I’m practical,” was his gruff reply. “War is coming.” Then he glanced away. “If you regret staying?—”

“No,” I said firmly. “Do you regret taking me?” The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

Kazimir’s eyes met mine. “No,” he said simply. “Not once.”

Something warm unfurled in my chest, but he didn’t give me time to savor the sensation. He flicked a hand at one of the constructs, sending it forward with a shudder.

“Choose your weapon.”

I stepped over to a rack of blades and staffs and opted for two daggers. Lightweight, balanced. “I’m not exactly a master duelist.”

He gave a half-shrug. “You don’t need to be. You only need to survive.”

He stepped aside and let the construct advance. It rushed at me, sword raised in a clumsy but swift arc. I barely managed to duck, the blade whistling over my head.

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