Page 40 of Promise of Darkness
“You son of a phooka,” I spit, wiping snow off my face.
The prince rests his hands on his thighs, a merry smile practically begging for my fist. “I could bury you in snow if I choose, and there’s nothing you could do about it.”
“I’m patient, Your Highness. I’d sleep very lightly if I were you.”
“I always sleep lightly,” he replies. “Though you’re quite welcome to join me in bed. I’ll consider any trespass into my bedchamber to be consent. Your plotting may not work out the way you’d like.”
“Fine.”Clambering to my feet, I settle into a defensive stance. “No magic.”
The prince dusts imaginary snowflakes off his black cloak. “No rules. We can use magic if we like.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to wipe that pretty smirk off your face?”
Thiago snorts. “Terrified.”
The fight’s been brewing for days.
I don’t know why, but I feel stretched thin. Dancing around him hasn’t solved this.
I toss my cloak aside, then draw the knife. The prince’s gaze drops to the iron blade, but his eyebrow merely quirks.
I hate that eyebrow. I hate its arrogance. Its mockery.
“If I draw blood, then I win.”
Not even fae magic can conquer iron.
I lash out, the knife cutting toward his arm, but the prince merely sidesteps and blocks the blow.
It’s like trying to fight a will-o’-the-wisp.
One second he’s there, and then next he simply isn’t. I don’t know what sort of magic this is, but he moves like no one I’ve ever fought.
“Curse you.”
A thumb digs into the pressure point in my hand, and I drop the knife.
That doesn’t mean I give up. I simply spin beneath his hand, slamming the flat of my palm against his side. It’s like hitting a stone wall.
Thiago grins at me, as if he’s enjoying this. Perhaps he is.
He trips me with his magic, time and time again, even as I try to break through his guard.
“Give up, Princess,” he mocks. “You won’t defeat me.”
I push harder. I can see the knife in the churned-up snow near his feet. I just need to get it. Driving forward, I feint to the side, then dart in to drive my knee into his thigh.
It’s the perfect move, flawlessly executed.
Or at least, it should be.
Two seconds later, I hit the snow, the breath slamming out of me. The prince pins me, his shoulders blotting out the weak sunlight.
“Surrender,” he says, pressing his weight over the top of me.
“Never.”
I expect him to be furious at my defiance, but he’s still grinning at me, as if this is the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.
