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“I’m from 1813,” I say. “Just like you.”

“Lies,” he growls, prodding his blade deeper, poking a small hole in my flesh.

“What makes you say that?” I choke out the words, knowing I’m taking a risk by calling his bluff, but the more I can convince him to talk, the more time I’ll have to plan my next move.

“You don’t fit, you don’t blend, and you clearly don’t belong in this century,” he says.

Before I have a chance to respond, his eyes spark on mine as the tip of his blade slides clean across my throat.

23

In an instant, my flesh turns to fire.

And it’s only when I watch his fingers close around my talisman that I realize not only has he cut me, but he’s managed to separate me from my one and only connection to Braxton, to Gray Wolf, to my memories of my proper place and time.

No.

No!

Without even thinking, I attack.

Swinging my blade for real, for keeps, without any care to the spilling of blood soon to come.

I attack in spite of Killian’s warning that once I kill, I can never go back to who I once was.

And though my blade is too small to cross the distance between my hand and his chest, I aim for a target I can reach and slice straight into his wrist.

The man staggers backward, those blue eyes filled with shock and—and something else. Something so dark and menacing it leaves me wishing I’d never set foot in this study.

I track the spill of blood, but the wound is superficial at best and does nothing to weaken his grip.

Cursing under his breath, he regains his footing and sets my talisman and the pocket watch on a table beside him. “You are a brazen one,” he says, eyes locked on mine as he brandishes his blade. “But you’re in over your head. So, why not spare yourself, little Time Jumper, and be on your way.”

He tips his head toward the door—a door I’d do anything to make my way through. But not without my talisman—the one thing that connects me to everything that matters in my world.

A shot of dread courses through me as I cut a nervous glance between his blade and mine.

How am I supposed to compete when I’ve clearly brought a box cutter to a sword fight?

My mind reels back to my first lesson in swordcraft. Braxton had a sword, I had a dagger, and it ended with me pinned against the wall, begging for mercy.

Focus, Braxton had coached.Stay in the moment, quiet your mind, and use your intuition to anticipate your opponent’s next move.

My mind wandered that night, but tonight I’m sharp, laser-focused, and the stakes have never been higher.

“Give me my charm,” I say, my voice hoarse but sure. “And I’ll gladly be on my way.”

The man regards me from under his brow. “It’s yours for the taking,” he says. “If you can get past me, that is.”

I’m out-armed—out of my league—but Braxton trained me for moments like this. It’s why he always fought with a sword, and I with a dagger. Never wanting me to forget that, as a woman traveling through the past, the odds would rarely be in my favor.

I stand before my opponent, expertly tossing my dagger from hand to hand and twirling it around my thumb in the way I was taught, but it only succeeds in making him laugh.

“Nice of you to demonstrate the limits of your skill,” he says. “But do not make the mistake of thinking I’ll go easy on you. The best way to learn—”

“Is by facing an opponent who’s better than you,” I finish the thought for him, quoting the very thing Braxton once said to me.

“Though your theory is solid,” the man says, “your form leaves much to be desired. Allow me to show you how it’s done.”