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I would bend her to my will, knock her flat on that beautifully rounded ass, those shapely legs sprawled around her.

What would it feel like to catch that smug lower lip of hers between my teeth and tug—

But instead of taking a moment to catch her breath, Veyka leapt forward.

She brought her blade up, quick as a flash, catching me at a bad angle. All I had to keep myself armed was my brute strength. The force of her attack ached through my wrist, then I felt the sharp burn that always meant blood as she drew away.

Ancestors… I’d never been distracted like this while sparring.

She’d managed to draw first blood. I could smell it, dripping from the tip of her curved blade, seeping through the thin linen of my shirt.

But I would have her surrender.

I darted forward—parry, slash, feint.

I was fast as well. Veyka matched me.

Heat began to build in my gut, just below my belly button. Respect. She was a formidable skill, perhaps even Gwen’s match. Who had trained her? Why had she even been trained? Magical ability was expected, as was the basic ability to wield a weapon.

But this?

Veyka was a warrior.

Despite all her other flaws—which I catalogued for myself nightly to try and cool my ardor—she was a warrior. I could see the gleam in her eyes.

And for the first time, a more difficult question occurred to me. Not the who—but the why.

Why had Veyka Pendragon not just trained with a blade, but with throwing knives? With wickedly curved rapiers clearly made for her personal use? Why was she good enough to best her own Goldstone Guards?

Why did the Princess of Peace need to be a warrior?

Cold prickled at the back of my neck.

For half a second, I suspected foul play—perhaps she had ice magic after all.

But the determination in her eyes, the lack of pause or distraction as she twirled her body, bringing that curved blade toward me in a gruesome corkscrew, killed that supposition. I bent my right knee and swiped my sword upward, knocking her blade to the side.

I had to end this before my own distraction got me wounded enough to leave Veyka vulnerable. I would trust no one else to guard her door.

She was back, a knife in her left hand now. She jabbed the knife upward, forcing me to jump to avoid it. As I did, she brought her curved sword in from the other side. A half second slower, and she’d have succeeded on getting her blade against my throat.

But I’d watched her enough from the shadows to know what was coming. My fingers curled around her wrist, digging into the sensitive pressure point. The rapier clanged to the ground. I twisted her arm up above her head, the blade of the axe in my other hand pressed against the pale skin above her breast.

She still gripped her dagger, but was powerless to wield it.

I was bleeding. She was not. Though I had no doubt she’d be sporting her own bruises come the evening.

“Do you surrender?” I said, staring straight into those endless blue eyes. There was certainly no glow of desire now, though I knew my own were burning. This close to her, both of our blood running high, my cock was as demanding as my lungs gulping greedily at the air.

Veyka bit hard on her lower lip, refusing to speak.

“I’ll make you a different bargain, rather than admit defeat,” I said on a whim. “Let me see that wicked smile, princess,” I crooned.

The one she had as she stood over her opponents in victory, the curve of her luscious mouth when she was about to land the winning blow… that look would fuel the next several weeks of fantasies. But I wanted it for myself.

“You don’t deserve my smiles,” she sneered, flexing her fingers around the hilt of her knife.

I pressed the blade down a little harder into the soft skin above her breast. “And why not? I will be your husband.”