Page 39 of Her Manticore Master
She adjusts her position, silk rustling as she tries to copy my movements. Better, but still awkward.
"Now what?"
"Basic strike. Straight punch, put your whole body behind it."
She swings with surprising force, but her form is terrible. The blow would barely scratch an actual opponent.
"Pathetic," I say without thinking.
Her eyes flash with fury. "I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"Easy for you to say. You've been training your whole life."
"So? That's just an excuse."
"An excuse?" Her voice rises dangerously. "I've spent the last three years as a decorative object. Forgive me if I'm not immediately proficient at violence."
"You're soft," I snap, letting frustration sharpen my words. "Pampered and weak and?—"
"I am not weak."
"Then prove it."
She swings again, this time with real anger behind the blow. Still technically awful, but there's genuine force in it now. Real intent to cause damage.
"Better. But your timing is off."
"Then show me."
"I am showing you."
"No, you're critiquing. There's a difference."
Before I can stop her, she tries the combination again, putting everything she has into each strike. Her form is still terrible, but there's something almost beautiful about her determination.
"Like this?" she asks, throwing another punch.
I catch her wrist mid-swing without thinking, intending to correct her angle. But the motion brings us chest to chest, close enough that I can count the gold flecks in her green eyes.
Heat roars through me like wildfire, sudden and overwhelming. Her lips part slightly, breath coming fast, and I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat.
"Ronan..."
Her voice is barely a whisper, but it hits me like a painful physical blow. Every rational thought evaporates as I lean closer, drawn by forces I don't understand and can't resist.
For a heartbeat, we stand frozen in place—her wrist still caught in my grip, our bodies pressed together, the air between us electric with possibility. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated, and I can see the exact moment she stops breathing.
I should step back. Should release her and restore the safe distance that keeps us both sane. But her scent surrounds me—jasmine and silk and something uniquely her—and I find myself leaning closer instead.
"This is insane," I breathe.
"Yes."
But she doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans into me, her free hand coming up to rest against my chest. The touch burns through me like brands.
"We can't?—"
