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I glare down at him from my upside-down vantage point. “Fuck you.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering me like I’m both specimen and prize. “You say that like it’s not inevitable.”

I snarl, fingers scrambling for the knot at my ankle. My body’s already sore, blood thundering in my ears. I twist, swing, reach for the tree bark, something—anything—to give me leverage. He doesn’t stop me.

“Go ahead,” he sighs. “Let’s see what you’ve got left.”

Oh, I’ll show him exactly what I’ve got. Starting with the sharp edge of my rage.

My fingers claw at the knot with frantic determination, and my body swings slightly with every desperate yank. The rope creaks. Bark scrapes my arms. My vision is going hazy now, heat and blood pressure warring under my skin, but Idon’tstop. Iwon’t. I’m not going to hang here like his trophy.

I see the glint of the blade too late. And then—snap.

The rope gives.

I crash down, the impact knocking every molecule of air from my lungs. Pain explodes in my side as I hit the forest floor hard, rolling once, twice, before I force my body upright.

I stagger to my feet, gasping, legs trembling but obeying. I don’t wait. Ilaunch. Fury and instinct crackle through me like lightning, and I fly at him, fists already clenched, jaw tight with pain and hate and fire.

Rule doesn’t flinch.

Hewaits.

I swing.

He blocks it, easily.

I aim a kick.

He deflects, the movement sharp and clean—but I see the smallest shift in his stance. I made him move. I’ll take it.

"Nowthat’sthe spirit," he says, and there’s a quiet, dangerous sort of satisfaction in his voice. “That’s the little storm I’m used to. The one that’d fight her own shadow just to prove she could.”

I push through the exhaustion dragging at my limbs. Every breath hurts. Every muscle screams. But I shove it down. I throw everything I have at him—punches, kicks, feints. Ifight. Not for freedom, not anymore. For spite. For the satisfaction of knowing that I made himworkfor it.

He taunts me between blocks and dodges, his voice laced with amusement, like he’s watching his favorite gladiator bleed for him.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says as I swing again. “Tired.”

I miss—overextend—and he grabs my wrist, twisting it hard enough to make me cry out. I twist, using the momentum to throw an elbow toward his face.

But he’sfaster.

He ducks and shoves me back. I hit the ground with a thud, skidding on damp leaves, arms up already, bracing for more.

And hegivesme more.

He’s on me before I can fully rise, straddling my hips, knees pinning mine, weight anchoring me like a vice. His knife flashes silver in the low light as he presses the flat of the blade to my throat—cold and unflinching. His other hand grabs my wrists, slamming them into the soft earth above my head and pinning them there.

Breathless, I glare up at him, chest heaving. My heartbeat pounds so violently I swear he can feel it through the grip on my wrists.

I should be fighting harder.

I should be spitting blood and curses and venom.

Instead, my thighs clench involuntarily.

Again.