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Skye easily seized her wrist, twisting her around and snapping her back to his front.

“No magic.” The words were hot against her ear, the scent of sandalwood and suede washing over her. “No weapons.”

He gave her a hard push, grinning when she effortlessly found her feet, bringing her fists up in a right lead stance: her right shoulder slightly raised, her right hand poised to strike with her left held back as a defense.

“And since we’re a little more evenly matched now, you can hit me all you want—first to pin gets the win.” The smirk he gave her was pure arrogance and shadow mage smugness.

Hot rage pumped through her, and she bathed in the utter simplicity of it. How it managed to drown out everything else until something like calm settled over her.

This was familiar. The sparring ring. Skye. In her bones and her blood, she knew what to do.

“You’re going to regret that,” Taly said, sweet as poison. Then she stepped into her first attack.

Hooking a foot around his ankle, she gave him a shove that sent him stumbling back. It created an opening, and she went for it.

She was faster now, stronger, and he’d spent his entire life treating her like glass. Pulling his punches. Slowing his steps. That instinct was hard to unlearn.

That instinct was why he took half a heartbeat too long to regain his balance.

Why he didn’t see her fist barreling toward his face—

He dodged the first swing, but not the second. Jabbing at him from the left, her knuckles cracked against his cheek.

His head snapped sideways, and for one glorious second, he looked surprised.

She pressed the advantage.

Another strike—high, sharp, and aimed for his jaw. He blocked it, but barely.

She spun low, swept a leg toward his ankle. He jumped back a step, and she lunged, driving her shoulder into his chest.

Contact. Real contact.

She went again—left hook, elbow, a sharp jab to his ribs that forced a grunt from his throat.

Her heart raged, finally loud enough to drown out the whispers. And Shards, it feltgood. So much better than roaming the house like a ghost, desperate for any distraction.

Skye was grinning. A challenge burned in his eyes, edged with exhilaration.

No—more than that.

It was sheer, unrestrained delight that only sharpened with each jab, kick, and lunge he blocked.

They had never sparred like this. Never been able to. Ivain had taught her how to run away, defend but never engage. He’d taught Skye how to juggle her punches like she was made of glass.

But this—this was personal. As intimate as two people sharing a dance with the same rhythm. The same combination of instinct and training, every movement perfectly aligned with its corresponding breath.

She swung, but a sidestep let him dodge and grab her wrist in the same elegant sweep of motion. A hand pressed into her shoulder, bending her into a check. She struck at his knee and twisted back to jab at his face with an elbow—spun and managedto break his grip before landing two solid hits to his abdomen and a kick that he blocked with the wall of his arm.

He let momentum carry him through his next strike, but she scuttled back.

They were both panting. His smirk had faded, replaced by something sharper, more intense as they circled each other in the ring. He was sizing her up now, looking at her like a real opponent for once.

Damn that felt good.

She couldn’t help the giddy thrill that rushed through her. Or the spark of lust at the way his muscled chest heaved. Her eyes followed a bead of sweat all the way down his abdomen to where it disappeared beneath the waist of his pants.

He saw where her attention had wandered and smirked knowingly. “My eyes are up here.”