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I pace restlessly, my eyes trained on him.

All of that, all of what he just said, was to release the siren. The thing is I don’t like being teased,manipulated. I like doing the teasing and the manipulating.

I roll my neck, power thrumming through me, and I swing the sword in my grip a few times.

Des raises his sword. “Hello, lovely.” I slit my eyes, and he must understand my look because he says, “Do you know why I brought you out?”

I don’t bother answering him.

“I want you to fight me,” he explains.

That’s not going to be a problem.

Casually, I saunter toward Des, my earlier reticence gone. It’s been replaced by a primal need for vengeance and bloodlust.

This time, when I get close to him, I swing my blade without the same hesitation as before. Des parries it then moves forward, his own sword brandished.

I block the next blow, our swords locking together. Beyond them, Des’s eyes dance with mirth.

“Does it bother you, love, to be toyed with?”

I flash him a lethal look, my nails sharpening. Gritting my teeth, I shove his sword off mine, slashing out with my claws. He spins out of the way, just avoiding the kick I aim for his crotch.

“Silly fairy,” I say, mocking him. “You know better than to toy with me. I’ll always make you pay in the end.”

If anything, Des looks more exhilarated than ever, which only serves to rile me more. With a growl, I come at him again.

The two of us block then strike, block then strike. At some point our battle feels less like a collection of steps and swings and more like a dance. I move fluidly, my instincts guiding me, my courage making each of my blows sure and swift.

The more we fight, the harder he makes me work for it, and the harder he makes me work for it, the more I want it. Blood. Sex. Fighting. Fucking. Any of it. All of it. His violence and his passion are mine to use. Mine to exploit. Mine to savor.

I swipe low, my body rolling with the motion. As I follow through with the swing, I hear the whizz of Des’s blade and then a snip. A lock of my dark hair tumbles to the ground.

“Oops,” Des deadpans, looking remorseless.

In response, I smile at him, and then I attack. I feint left but then go right. Blocked. I kick out, aiming for his solar plexus. He dodges and spins away. Lunging forward, I strike again, aiming for his face.

I miss his jaw by inches, but my blade sheers off a stray lock of his white-blond hair. The two of us pause, watching it flutter to the ground.

Des’s expression is caught somewhere between shock and awe.

“You got me,” he says. “You actually got me.” He straightens and smiles. “You know what this means, cherub?”

Warily, I take a step back. I’m still high off my small victory, but I’m not yet too prideful to not know when I should retreat.

“I need to make this harder.” He moves his weapon from his left hand to his right.

Shit.

I hadn’t even noticed.

I back up, moving into the queen’s sacred oak forest. The leaves brush against me, whispering, whispering…

Des comes at me, looking oh so eager.

I move deeper into the forest, sap from an overhanging oak dripping onto my neck, then against my bare shoulder.

“Evading me will do you no good,” Des says. One moment he’s standing in the middle of the garden, the sunlight brightening his pale features, and the next, he’s gone.