Page 80 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

58

In a moment of terror, I take a giant, clumsy leap back.

The sound of my dagger as it slips from my fingers and clatters hard against the glass floor is in direct competition with the frantic thud of my wildly beating heart.

I stand before Braxton, unarmed and on the verge of hyperventilating.

To his credit, he doesn’t take advantage and he doesn’t laugh. He merely lowers his sword to his side, nods toward my weapon, and lets me regroup and get a grip on myself.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I probably should’ve opened with that, but I guess I assumed it went without saying.”

“Unlike you, I can’t afford to assume anything in this place.” I force the words past a tongue that’s gone dry, as my breath slowly steadies and my stomach gradually finds its way out of my throat and back to where it belongs.

“You’d be wise not to,” Braxton says. “So, allow me to state now and for the record, that I would never, ever harm you in any way, whatsoever. Does that cover it—are we good?”

When his warm gaze lands on mine, I’m left even more shaken than I was when I thought for sure he was aiming to take off my head. I mean, how am I supposed to concentrate on anything when he looks at me like that—so heated, so intimate, so—

“But when you’re out there Tripping,” Braxton says, clearly unaware of the effect he’s having on me, which definitely comes as a relief, “and a weapon is drawn, you can be sure your opponent won’t grant you the courtesy of going easy on you.”

I nod. Swallow. Go to great lengths to avoid meeting his gaze.

“If you’re ready, we’ll start by shadowing. Just follow my lead.”

I watch as he raises his blade, then I raise mine as well.

When he lowers his, I do the same.

“Good,” he says. “Now, when I step back, you move toward me, and vice versa.”

Though I try to mimic his postures with the same grace and ease, he moves with such natural elegance, I feel awkward and clumsy in comparison.

“Am I about to get an F in mime class?” I groan.

“Think of it like a dance,” Braxton says, and that’s when I realize he’s moving in time with the music.

“Oh, I get it,” I say. Aiming my blade toward his shoulder, I remember how Arthur told him to mark me down for lessons in dance, comportment, and just about everything else. “This is a dance/swordcraft two-for-one.” I laugh, but again, Braxton is fully devoted to staying in serious mode.

“Focus,” he whispers. “Stay in the moment, quiet your mind, and ignore all distractions. Then combine that focus with your intuition to see if you can anticipate my next move.”

He lowers his blade and jabs it toward my ribs. And, since I didn’t see it coming, I arc my body away, falter slightly on my heels, but then quickly recover and counter with the same.

Braxton repeats the move, giving me a chance to do better. Only this time, the top edge of my blade veers a little too close, and after skimming over his torso, it catches on a button and shreds a hole in his shirt.

“Omigod,” I gasp. “I didn’t mean—”

The button pings and bounces across the glass floor, but my eyes are locked on the place where the fabric is torn and Braxton’s smooth, taut abs are exposed.

A ripple of heat courses through me, and I guess my gaze must linger just a little too long, because Braxton clears his throat, and says, “Let it go.”

I can’t tell if he’s referring to the loss of the button, or the way he caught me open-mouthed gaping at his rock-hard torso. Either way, I force myself to look away.

“Stay with me,” he coaches. “Be right here, right now. Just you and me. There’s nobody else.” His voice is so low and deep, the words hook right into me.

Just you and me… Nobody elserepeats in my head like a song.

Braxton walks a slow circle around me, reducing my world to nothing more than the two of us in this all-glass room.

“Where are you,” he says, voice barely audible over the music.

“Here,” I reply, my breath hitching in my chest when my eyes latch onto his. A classical melody plays in the background, but all I can hear is the burning silence that sizzles between us.

I want to look away, but I can’t.

My eyes plead with his to look away, but he won’t.

And with the winter’s night sky glimmering overhead and the turbulent sea crashing far below, we return to this strange and delicate ritual of advance and retreat until I’ve come to know the strength of his lunge as well as he’s learned the force of my parry.

When the song changes, Braxton expertly steers me to the far side of the room. His moves grow so increasingly complex, it requires all my focus just to keep up. Which reminds me of the guided meditation app Mason once made me listen to, swearing it would help still my mind and “center myself.” When all it really did was allow for a front-row seat to the parade of anxious thoughts that incessantly storm through my brain.

Apparently, that slim thread of memory is all it takes to drive me off course, because the next thing I know, my dagger clangs to the ground, I’m pinned against the glass wall, and the cold, sharp tip of Braxton’s blade is pressing to the hollow of my throat.