Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 847(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
“Give me your worst.”
The fencing apparatus’ timer began to tick down. I sank into a deep lunge.
For an épée fencer, Zach favored aggressive play. He skipped the probes and advanced mere seconds into our first three minutes.
His lithe body spliced through the air, the point of his sword aimed straight for my heart. I dodged, retreated, then stepped forward.
He disregarded the move as a threat.
Arrogant bastard.
I made sure he regretted it, springing forward and rocketing into a dive, all the way to the floor, cutting him at the knees.
He growled at the contact but managed to bite his tongue.
The apparatus beep punctuated his retreat.
1-0.
He settled on his en-garde line. “Again.”
“Your instincts…” I snapped my fingers, turning away from him and returning to starting position. “…they’re not as good as you think.”
“I’m not paying you to talk, Jane.” He rearranged himself back into proper stance. “I’m paying you to fence.”
Be this way, and I will shred you into ribbons.
The next match, I bullied him by circling my sword the entire time it was in the air, hiking up his guard until his parries became fidgety.
He returned the favor with long, impressive strokes that kept me on my toes, plunging into my personal space when I least expected and coming at me with such hostility, you’d think I’d beheaded the Terracotta sculpture inside his home library.
He wielded a lethal combination of strength, speed, and combat joy. A true fan of the art of war.
The point of his sword kissed my shoulder. I grunted as if the contact hurt, pulling back with a yelp. “Ugh.”
1-1.
Zach retreated, strolling away as he admired his sword. “Be graceful in defeat.”
Famous last words.
We returned to our en-garde position and began again.
2-1.
3-1.
3-2.
As the bout progressed, I had to admit Zach could probably cinch a spot on the Olympic team.
He possessed all the coveted traits. Speed, agility, inhuman precognition, and superior observation skills.
He moved like a dancer with elegance and unparalleled discipline.
Midway through the second period, I’d stopped keeping track of the score. All I knew was that I would beat him.
I never lost.
I hurled the sword at him. “Why fencing?”
He dodged artfully.
If my question surprised him, he didn’t show it. This was more than I’d spoken to him in all four months we’d practiced together.
Without a cover to keep, I indulged my curiosity.
Correction: I intended to blow my cover on purpose.
I wanted him to know it was me who had taught him how to use a sword. That I knew how to impale one’s heart, and his was no different.
He executed a perfect passe arriere. “The touch of a blade is preferable to the touch of a human.”
“What’s wrong with humans?”
“Everything.” He attempted to hit my shoulder, but I ducked, twirling in place. “You, for instance, talk too much for my liking.”
“Find another trainer.”
A frosty chuckle chilled the air. “We both know you’re too talented to replace, something that cannot be said about the majority of workers.”
“Andras is a better instructor than me.”
“Andras is a dead horse. Bitter and mad at the world. A victim cannot become a victor. And I do not employ losers.”
Our swords zinged, meeting, pulling, then turning away from one another.
“You think so highly of yourself,” I growled.
“Only because most creatures are so lowly. Don’t you agree, Jane Doe?”
I advanced, lunging so fast, I left a gust of wind in my wake.
Through sheer athleticism rather than technique, he dodged my two jump flicks and tried but failed to aim at my heart.
I attacked him faster, relentlessly, refusing to give him a break between parries. He stumbled, falling to the floor, his back plastered against the piste.
Get used to this position.
After all, it’s how cooked lobsters are served.
Zach tried to recover. To spring to his feet. No matter how stellar his reflexes, he couldn’t match my practiced speed.
By the time his neck lifted off the alloy, his mask met the tip of my sword, making up for the two times he had his knife aimed at me.
The scoreboard beeped.
9-7.
A knot untightened in my stomach as I pressed my foot against his knee, stopping him from standing.
With a flick of my sword, I tossed the épée from his hand.
Zach remained on the piste, calm and collected under his mask, his chest barely rising with his breaths.
“That’s one very red card, Jane Doe.”
“Red happens to be my favorite color.”
I used the point of my épée to remove his mask, neck to scalp, careful not to graze his beautiful face with my blade.
As much as I hated to admit it, ruining such art would be a waste.
Zach was revealed to me inch by inch like the slow draw of a theater curtain, his stoic face unwavering and utterly breathtaking.
Somehow, his eyes tangled with mine through my mask. A shiver ran down my spine.
We weren’t touching.
Not really.
Layers of heavy fabric and pads separated my foot from his knee.