“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Abigail said behind me, absolutely *living* for the chaos I was currently drowning in.

“I think I saw *sin incarnate,*” I muttered, staring down at my sword like it had betrayed me.

Demetrius had walked off all casual, like he hadn’t just said something that could've made a nun combust. And now he was rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck, and heading back with his usual calm and silent menace. That was, until—

“Still can’t focus?” he asked as he picked up a new practice blade.

“I’m focused just fine,” I gritted out, planting my feet again.

He cocked a brow. “You sure?”

“Yes!”

“Prove it.”

And then… *he pulled off his shirt.*

Just.

Pulled.

It off.

One second it was there, clinging to his broad shoulders, and the next, it was hanging in his hand while *every muscle he’d ever forged in war glistened with sweat under the morning light.*

“Oh my—” Abigail made a sound that was somewhere between a squeal and a wheeze. “Sir Demetrius, I am not religious, but I *will* start attending mass if it means I see more of that.”

Even Ivy had returned from wherever she'd stormed off to, now suspiciously hanging back at the fence, acting like she *just happened* to walk by. I wasn’t fooled. Her mouth was slightly open.

Demetrius didn't even flinch at the attention. He looked straight at *me.*

“If you’re going to fight,” he said calmly, “you need to learn how to block out distraction. So here’s your lesson—focus on the fight, not the flesh.”

“Are you *serious?*” I hissed, heat rising up my neck faster than boiling tea. “This is your teaching method now? You’re shirtless and smug, and I’m supposed to—what—swing my sword while you look like a cursed painting in a forbidden temple?!”

He smirked. “That’s oddly specific. You been fantasizing, Destiny?”

I swung at him with a growl that came from somewhere very deep inside me.

Steel clashed. Hard.

And fast.

He blocked me once, twice—then moved in so close I could smell the leather of his belt and the wild scent of pine on his skin. His bare chest brushed my arm and I almost forgot we were *fighting* and not… *doing something else entirely.*

“Focus,” he whispered, low and gravelly.

I ducked under his arm and spun, catching him lightly on the ribs. “Focused enough for you?”

He chuckled. “Better.”

Then—without warning—he kicked my foot from under me.

I went down hard, my back slapping the grass. Before I could even groan, his boot nudged the tip of my blade away, and he leaned over me, just slightly, his shadow casting over my face.

“You still flinch,” he said, voice a shade rougher now. “You can’t afford to flinch. Not with real enemies. Not with men who want more than just to kiss your hand.”

His eyes locked on mine, heat smoldering under the surface.

I was breathless. Not from the fall.

Not from the swordplay.

But because this man—the same knight who told me he’d rather slay a dragon than serve a princess—was looking at me like *I* was the battlefield now.

Abigail cleared her throat loudly. “Okay, kids! Either kiss or kill each other already, because I am *not* emotionally equipped for this kind of tension before lunch.”

Demetrius stepped back like nothing had happened, tossing me my sword.

“Again,” he said.

I didn’t even get to catch my breath.

Because training with Demetrius?

Was starting to feel a lot more like *temptation.*