“Here. Your hips carry a lot of power. Sink into your stance. When you throw a punch, you need the whole force of your body behind it, not just your arm.”
Her hips shift beneath my palms as she rocks back slightly to put the weight in her heels. “Like this?”
It’s a near-perfect stance, and I’m a little gobsmacked by how readily she picks up instruction. “That’s it, my lady. Now, you can think about a strike. Keep your elbow tucked in close to your body, like this.” I grasp her wrist lightly to show her how to hold her arm. “Good. Now make a fist. Keep it loose. To strike, you rotate your whole body into it.” I wrap my arms around her shoulders, pivoting her body as she practices striking.
After a few practice punches in the air, I move to face her. “Now show me as if I were your attacker.”
Her face is alight, determined. She aims a slow-motion punch at my chest, and the moment it makes contact, I trap her fist.
“Aim for vulnerable spots. I’m strongest here in my chest. Go for the chin instead, or here, where the ribcage meets. That’s more likely to throw your opponent off balance, especially if it’s a woman.”
“Like this?”
She drives her little fist into my solar plexus with all the force of a wisp of cloud blowing in the breeze.
I smirk. “Now put some force behind it.” Her eyebrows rise at the suggestion of violence, but she smashes her fist harder against me.
“Try again,” I order.
She hits with more force.
“Again.”
She pauses, looking up. “What if I hurt you for real?”
I chuckle “Oh, little violet. You can’t hurt me.”
Her jaw tenses like she doesn’t appreciate my bravado. She throws a punch, but this time, she strikes my chest squarely in my lefthand side, atop the wildcat’s puncture wounds. I jerk, not because the pain is bad—it isn’t—but because this clever little minx tried to pull a fast one on me.
“So you want to fight dirty, is that it?” There’s an edge in my voice.
Her fist is balled tightly. “I want you to take me seriously.”
“Oh, I take your safety as seriously as a blade to my throat.”
She straightens, lifting her chin as she evaluates her small fists. “Now show me how to defend myself against a man.”
“A man? Lady Sabine—”
“There must be something I can do. You’re saying I should just take a man’s brutality?”
She’s already suggested I don’t take her safety seriously, so I want to give her what she wants. She’s such a little thing that it spikes anger in my veins to even consider how easily a thuggish man might overpower her.
“Your strength isn’t enough, so you’ll have to use other tools at your disposal. You can speak to creatures that bite and sting. Use that.”
“Use animals?” Her face pales. She shakes her head in a single, definitive bob. “No. I can’t.”
It takes me a minute to understand. “Ah. The dead wildcat. I see. You don’t want to put more animals at risk, is that it?”
Pain ripples across her face as she swipes at her nose.
Nodding to myself, I say steadily, “There are ways to give yourself claws, then.”
She meets my gaze, very much intrigued. “How?”
I draw my hunting knife from the holster at my hip. It’s a wide, ten-inch blade with a heavy brass handle, given to me by Lord Rian as a prize when I slaughtered a wolf that attacked one of the Valvere’s prize horses.
I press the hilt into her small palm. “This hilt was made for my hand, not yours. When we arrive in Duren, I’ll have a properly sized blade made for you. Something small and sheathed that you can hide beneath your clothes.”
“Oh,” she says softly, wrapping her fingers around the brass hilt. “I can’t pay you.”
Pay me? For keeping her safe? I would pay her a thousand coins if she only promised to keep a blade on her at all times. Even after crossing half of Astagnon together, she still doesn’t seem to understand that I exist to serve her, not the other way around.
I give a low laugh. “Consider it a wedding present.”
She gives me a wry look. “Not many people would associate weddings with knives.” She toys with the blade’s sharp point, pressing it gently against my heart. “I do, too.”
I swallow a dry breath. Because we’re the same, I think. Both abandoned. Both made to survive on our own.
A girl like that doesn’t want rubies and gold. She wants claws.
She applies slight pressure to the knife’s tip, bowing but not breaking my skin. “And what if, when we reach Sorsha Hall, I don’t have a blade at the ready? Should I scream?”
“Hmm,” I stall, not wanting to dismiss her suggestion immediately. Yeah, right. The chance of someone responding to a scream in Sorsha Hall is as fanciful as cloudfoxes. Sorsha Hall is no silent convent filled with soft prayer and incense. Screams are the fucking standard. There are always sporting fights in the ballroom, not to mention moaning from the bedrooms.
“Distraction,” I say instead. “That’s your best option. Divert your attacker’s attention and run.”
She squares her stance just as I taught her. “Like this?”
She raises her fist, ready for more sparring, but I hesitate as my eyes trail down her curves beneath my oversized shirt.
“I don’t mean to offend your decency, my lady, but there’s often only one reason a man would attack a girl who looks like you do. He’ll likely be able to overpower you physically, but such an attack also leaves him open to vulnerabilities.”
Her cheeks turn a pretty shade of rose as she puts together my meaning, and she lowers her fists slowly, but maintains her fierce stance. In a dry, steady voice, she says, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Show me.”
Anticipation blooms in my chest. I’ve already touched my master’s bride during this sparring lesson far more than is appropriate, and now she’s asking for more?
I can tell myself it’s for her safety as much as I want—it doesn’t mean I don’t also jump at every chance to feel her soft flesh. I am truly fucked by how much I like touching her. A better man would tell her that it’s enough, and she can continue fighting lessons with her husband as her guide.
But I’m not a better man.
“Down,” I command, tipping my chin up.
She readily complies, lowering to her knees while keeping her round eyes on me. She sinks onto her bottom, then leans back onto her elbows in a submissive, reclined position, looking up at me expectantly through her long lashes.
Fuck. I could be hung for the sick thoughts going through my head to see my master’s bride splayed out like that on the ground before me.
With a dry throat, I drop to my own knees, straddling her waist as I brace myself over her with one arm. She’s kiss-close beneath me, her lips parted as her breath rises and falls shallowly.
I say hoarsely, “A man, especially an aroused one, will be most vulnerable in his groin. That’s where you’re going to want to hurt him. He’ll expect you to struggle, so he’ll be on guard. The best thing you can do is put him at ease. Don’t fight him—at least at first. Make him think you want it.”