The castle courtyard was quiet that morning, aside from the dull clank of steel on stone and my pride hitting the floor over and over again.

“Pick it up,” Demetrius said, voice flat, gesturing toward my sword. “Again.”

“I *am* picking it up,” I muttered through gritted teeth, yanking the damn thing off the ground. My arms were already sore from the three failed disarms, five improper lunges, and at least one epic face-plant. Apparently, I sucked at everything except falling.

Abigail lounged nearby on a bench like some noblewoman with nothing to do, sipping from a cup of lavender water and watching us with way too much amusement.

“Sir Demetrius,” she called sweetly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “How is it that you manage to look so *menacingly* handsome even when you're torturing my best friend?”

He didn’t even glance her way. “Because I don’t waste time being charming.”

“Ugh,” she sighed dramatically. “That was basically a love confession in knight language.”

“Abigail, *please*,” I groaned as I tried for another overhead strike.

And promptly slipped.

Again.

Flat on my back. For the *third* damn time.

“Fuck!” I hissed, slamming my fist against the ground. “I’m done. This is bullshit.”

Demetrius walked over and stared down at me with the emotional range of a granite statue. “You're not done.”

“Oh, I think I am.” I pushed myself up and tossed the sword at his feet. “I fall more in this damn courtyard than I did when I was *five*! This isn’t training—this is humiliation with a soundtrack.”

Abigail clapped slowly. “Wow. And I thought Ivy was dramatic.”

“I *am* dramatic when I’m being thrown around like a sack of potatoes!” I turned to Demetrius, chest heaving. “You’re not even teaching me anything. You’re just watching me fall.”

Demetrius’s eyes narrowed. “If you listened to me, you’d fall less.”

“Oh, don’t start with that ‘I’m older, therefore wiser’ crap.”

“I *am* older than you.”

I folded my arms. “What, seven years?”

“Eight,” he corrected instantly, jaw tightening. “And that doesn’t make a difference.”

“Oh, it makes a difference, *sir*,” I snapped. “It means you’re old, cranky, and probably in need of a nap.”

Abigail let out a loud *snort-laugh*. “She got you there.”

“I’m done,” I declared, spinning on my heel. “I’ll train myself. At least then, I’ll land on my ass with dignity.”

“You’ll train yourself into an early grave,” Demetrius said darkly.

“Good. Better than dying of boredom out here while you stare at me like I’m a broken sword.”

I stomped off, Abigail jogging after me with a half-sympathetic, half-excited smirk.

“Fine,” Demetrius’s voice rang out behind us. “Then fight me.”

I stopped.

So did Abigail.

“Oh shit,” she whispered.

I turned around slowly. Demetrius stood there, arms crossed, eyes like polished ice. “You think you’re ready to train on your own? Prove it. Fight me.”

The courtyard fell silent.

“You serious?” I asked, one brow raised.

He picked up my sword and tossed it back. I caught it—barely.

“Dead serious.”

Abigail whistled. “Oooooh, this is about to be better than the time Ivy caught you using her eyeliner as boot polish.”

I stepped back onto the training field, rolling my shoulders.

“Fine. Let’s go, old man.”

Demetrius smirked—*smirked!*—and drew his blade with that same eerie calm that made my stomach flip.

We circled.

I lunged first—he dodged easily.

I spun, tried a side swipe.

Blocked.

I ducked low, sweeping at his legs. He jumped. Graceful. Effortless. Arrogant bastard.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he said casually, like we were discussing the weather and not currently trying to kill each other for sport.

“You want *more*?” I growled, slashing again.

He caught my blade with his, and we locked for a moment. Our faces were close. Too close. I could see the faint scar across his jaw, the little nick above his eyebrow. His breath was warm, and his body smelled like sweat, steel, and something woodsy that made my knees a little weak. Damn him.

“You fight like you talk,” he murmured, breath brushing my lips. “Reckless.”

“And you talk like someone who’s never been punched in the face.”

I pushed off, panting.

He charged.

I misstepped.

Tripped.

Landed flat on my ass *again*.

The world tilted. My butt screamed in betrayal.

“Ohhh nooo,” Abigail gasped, sprinting toward me like I’d been run through. “You okay?!”

“I’m *fine*,” I grunted, cringing as I sat up. “Just bruised in the ego.”

Demetrius sheathed his blade. “You wanted a fight. You got one.”

Abigail stood between us like a furious bunny rabbit. “You went too far! You could’ve *broken her tailbone*!”

“I didn’t touch her. She tripped on her own pride.”

“Dickhead,” I muttered under my breath.

“What was that?” he asked, raising a brow.

“*Thank you* for the lesson,” I said sweetly. “Next time I’ll wear armor. Or a mattress.”

He chuckled and walked off, leaving me fuming on the ground while Abigail tried not to laugh.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips. “So... are we mad or are we a little turned on?”

“Abigail.”

“What? I’m just saying, the tension is *there*. I felt it. I almost needed to fan myself and we’re outside.”

I groaned and dropped back onto the grass, glaring up at the sky.

This training was going to kill me.

Or worse—*he* was.