Page 17

One Unseelie boy studies me with narrowed eyes, leaning to whisper something to his companion that makes them both look at me with sudden, intense focus.

As Briar returns to his place, I notice movement at the arena entrance. Finnian has arrived, watching with obvious approval, his amber eyes catching the light with unnatural brightness. His lips curve into a smile that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.

Beside him stands another observer, partially concealed in shadows but radiating a presence that fills the room like a physical pressure, a cold front before a storm.

Kieran Nightshade.

Our eyes meet across the distance, and the thorn patterns beneath my sleeve pulse painfully, a burn that shoots from wrist to shoulder like lightning through my veins.

My breath catches, lungs momentarily forgetting how to function.

The pendant around my neck turns ice-cold in response, as if fighting against my body’s reaction to him.

I break the contact first, turning my attention back to the class.

“Now, I’d like each of you to?—”

The doors burst open. A man strides in with the confident gait of someone who owns whatever space he occupies. Tall, powerfully built, with hair like living flame that flickers with internal light. He’s dressed for practical combat—leather vest, boots that make no sound.

His entrance doesn’t just change the air—it electrifies it. He brings with him the scent of woodsmoke and something wilder—lightning-struck earth, ozone, and pine sap.

Every student in the room straightens perceptibly. Two Seelie girls nervously smooth their hair. An Unseelie boy stops slumping and stands at attention.

“Professor Wildfire,” several murmur with obvious respect.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he announces, not sounding sorry at all. His voice carries the rough edge of someone more comfortable outdoors than in academic settings. “Heard we had combat demonstrations and couldn’t resist observing.”

His gaze lands on me with surprising intensity. His pupils shift from round to vertical when he looks at me. Hair flickers with actual flame. Not human anymore.

He looks me up and down, lips curving into a smile that’s pure sin.

“You must be our human combat specialist.” The way he says it makes it sound like a private joke between us, intimate and teasing. “Though you move like anything but human.”

Something about the way he says human carries a subtle question mark. A test.

“Professor Morgan,” I confirm with a professional nod, ignoring the way my skin prickles in his presence, tiny hairs standing at attention along my arms.

“Orion Wildfire,” he replies, closing the distance between us. “Wild Court combat instructor.”

He glances around at the students, noting Briar’s still-surprised expression. His eyes return to mine, lingering like a physical caress.

“I see you’ve already made quite an impression.” The way he says it sounds like we’re sharing a private joke. “Pretty and dangerous.” His eyes rake over me with unabashed appreciation. “My favorite combination.”

“We were discussing adaptive techniques versus established forms,” I explain, maintaining a neutral tone despite the sudden tension in the room.

“Were we? Because I’m more interested in discussing what other... adaptations you might be hiding.” His smile turns predatory. “Care to demonstrate some private lessons, Professor?”

The dynamic has shifted with his arrival—students watching expectantly, Finnian looks concerned, and Kieran’s expression darkens to something dangerous, shadows around him deepening visibly.

“Perhaps a public demonstration would be more appropriate,” I counter.

“Public works.” His grin widens, revealing slightly pointed canines. “But I make no promises about keeping my hands to myself if you keep moving like that.”

He moves closer, his massive presence making the space between us feel charged with potential energy. He’s huge—towering over me by at least a foot, broad shoulders blocking the light behind him.

“Perhaps a demonstration between instructors would better illustrate the principles?” His invitation carries an undercurrent that has nothing to do with academics. “I promise to be gentle. At first.”

The man winks at me. Winks!

Worse is the flutter of excitement that hums beneath my skin.

The students’ collective intake of breath sends a ripple through the air.

Finnian takes a half-step forward as if to intervene, then stops himself, fingers tightening around a book he carries.

From the shadows, Kieran watches with predatory stillness, his face utterly blank but his eyes tracking every movement with unnerving intensity.

This is a test. A public evaluation of my capabilities.

“Of course,” I agree, matching his casual tone. “What parameters would you suggest?”

“Hand-to-hand?” he offers. “No weapons, no intentional injuries. First to pin their opponent for three seconds wins.”

Standard sparring rules. Nothing I haven’t done hundreds of times in military training. Except my opponent is an immortal Fae combat instructor with unknown capabilities. And I’m pretty sure he’s trying to flirt with me.

And damn him, but it might just work on me. Sparring can be considered foreplay. Maybe.

“Agreed,” I say, setting aside my staff and moving to the center of the training area. The training mats pulse brighter under my feet. The room recognizes me. Responds to what I’m becoming.

Without thinking, I reach up and unclasp the pendant, letting the chain pool in my palm. The moment the metal breaks contact with my skin, everything changes.

Orion studies me, reassessing. His size is even more imposing up close—he stands at least a foot taller than me, his shoulders broad enough to block the light.

Yet he doesn’t use his bulk to intimidate, instead moving with surprising lightness, his weight perfectly balanced.

“Shall we show them some more advanced techniques?”

I nod, adjusting my stance. “Ready when you are.”

This time, I observe more carefully. The students haven’t just been shown a human defeating a fae student—they need to see what happens when skill levels are truly matched.

Orion’s right hand snaps forward—a palm strike aimed at my sternum.

I pivot, catching his wrist and redirecting the force past my shoulder.

His skin burns against mine. Fire races up my arm.

The thorns under my sleeve blaze in response.

My pendant turns ice-cold, fighting back.

I nearly gasp at the intensity of it, nothing like the emptiness I’ve felt with human contact.

He counters instantly, using my grip as leverage to pull me off-balance, his left leg sweeping toward my ankle.

“Nice reflexes,” he murmurs, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “Not many can redirect that strike.”

I jump the sweep, but he anticipates this, his redirected palm strike becoming a grab that closes around my forearm.

His grip burns against my skin as he pulls me toward him, using my own momentum to unbalance me.

The heat of his palm seeps through fabric, finding the thorn patterns beneath.

They respond with answering warmth, pulsing against his touch like a second heartbeat.

“Your arm,” he whispers, eyes widening slightly. “It’s?—”

I recognize this combination from Graves’ briefing materials—a Wild Court takedown sequence documented in classified reports. My conscious mind accesses the appropriate counter-technique, a simple military redirection designed to use an opponent’s strength against them.

Instead of resisting, I drop my center of gravity and roll with his pull, sliding beneath his extended arm.

My elbow finds the sensitive point beneath his sternum—just enough to make him exhale sharply.

But as I complete the movement, I realize something isn’t right.

The counter I just executed wasn’t the human technique I’d intended to use.

Who taught me that? When? How do I know this?

He releases me, eyes widening slightly. “That’s not a human technique,” he murmurs, too low for the students to hear.

I adjust my stance, struggling to control my breathing. That movement had emerged from muscle memory I shouldn’t possess—fluid and instinctive, nothing like the angular military forms I’ve trained in.

“Just adaptive,” I respond quietly.

Orion circles left, feinting with a low kick before launching a combination of strikes that blur with supernatural speed—jab, cross, uppercut, elbow.

I block the first, sidestep the second, duck the third, but the elbow catches me across the shoulder, sending a jolt of pain down my arm.

“Sorry,” he says with a grin and a belly laugh that echoes around us, that says he’s not sorry at all. “Forgot you’re more delicate than my usual sparring partners. Though you don’t feel delicate at all.”

I blow a loose strand of hair from my eyes as I glare at him.

I strike and Orion ducks. “That’s two,” he says, wiping sweat from his brow with infuriating calm.

“I wasn’t even trying yet,” I mutter.

“Is that what we’re calling it? Because you look like you’re about to combust.” His eyes drop to my lips. “In all the best ways.”

“Maybe I just find your face particularly irritating.”

“Funny. Most people find it particularly attractive.” He steps closer, invading my personal space. “Want to tell me what’s really distracting you?”

“Your ego taking up all the oxygen in the room.”

“That’s not my ego you’re reacting to, wildfire.”

He grins. “Well. I can’t be blamed for your weaknesses.”

Infuriating fae.

He moves closer than strictly necessary for the next exchange, his breath warm against my ear. “You feel like someone I’ve been waiting to meet for a very long time.”

In reply, I counter with what should be a standard special forces combination—a straight jab followed by a sweep.

But again, my body modifies the movements, incorporating flowing transitions that mirror his Wild Court style.

My jab transforms mid-motion into a spiral pattern that weaves around his guard.