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Caz laughed, motioning for me to come at him. “Then by all means, do your worst, Your Majesty.”

At least I had his permission .

I lunged again, and Caz dodged until I lowered my arms, pretending to give up. And then Caz, my dear friend, let out a playful snort and shook his head. His attention left me for a second.

It was all I needed.

My arm unfurled like a snake and my knuckles met with the center of his neck, sharp and effective.

“What the—shit!” Caz wheezed.

I covered my mouth with my hands, shocked. Immediately regretful.

Deep, booming laughter erupted from our left, where Gavin tossed his head back in amusement.

“Did that asshole tell you to do that?” Caz croaked, pointing at Gavin.

“Yes,” Gavin answered for me, still laughing deeply. “But she—” He shook his head, grinning with pride. “So well executed.”

“That’s a shit move. I wasn’t even looking.” Caz rubbed his neck, where a red mark was forming. And then he smirked, coughing away his surprise. “Though I suppose being punched in the throat by my queen is an honor.”

I bit my bottom lip. A failed attempt to suppress a relieved and confident grin.

“That’s enough for today, Caz. Thank you.” Gavin strode over to us and nodded toward the tavern. “Better put some ice on that.”

Caz snorted and shrugged, agreeing. Both Sinclairs shared their unrufflable demeanor. It was crucial for Finn to be with someone like Gemma. Someone had to level her fire.

But this morning, I was especially grateful for Caz.

His awareness and self-confidence that kept him unbothered by Gavin’s corrosive treatment.

He whistled cheerily as he walked back to the tavern, still rubbing his neck.

The man had to be quite comfortable with himself to be ordered around by someone so intimidating, who he hardly knew. Or maybe Caz was just smart.

“You did well.”

I turned to see Gavin standing before me, arms crossed, eyes aflame with pride. He followed my every move, even as I emptied my canteen down my throat without tasting the water. I’d hardly had a drink since breakfast.

Something dark flashed across his face. “You’re learning.”

But I had only been successful after he gave me instructions. I wouldn’t be very useful if I couldn’t strike on my own.

“Maybe I’ll be fine if I have someone near me to give me orders, but send me alone, and—”

Iron grips fastened around my wrists and forced me to the ground. Within a second, he was straddling me, the weight of his body pinning me, helplessly bound.

“What are you doing?” I rasped. “G-Gavin!” I jerked and thrashed, but he was so impossibly strong. Only the force of magic could get him off me—of which, I had yet to feel even a flicker.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?” he hissed.

“I—I don’t know!”

“Well,” he sneered, gripping the fabric of my sweater and sliding it up, exposing my midriff. “You’d better figure it out.”

“Stop!” I panicked when his hand slid beneath my sweater. “No, no, no! What—what are you doing?” I yelped when his fingers dug into my bare rib cage with more than enough force to bruise. “You’re hurting me!”

“Then fight!” he shouted, tearing my sweater open so I was left in nothing up top but my undergarments.

I screamed and lashed out, my hand a claw of nails nervously bit down to the quick. Not sharp enough. So I gripped his bearded chin, and I dug in.

He bared his straight white teeth, smiling wickedly. “That’s not enough, sweetheart. ”

“You… asshole !” I spat, swiping across his face. And though he did not take liberties with his touch, he didn’t ease his hold on my shoulders, the grip on my ribs, or the pressure of his hips that pinned me to the ground, either.

Screaming, panting, I thrust my body forward and crushed my forehead to his mouth.

He jerked back from the force, giving me just enough time to remember the knife wound in his shoulder—the one I’d put there just days ago.

There was no blood, no sign of it, but I could envision it well.

Too well. Intrusive memories of the bloody sight, horrified at how I’d hurt him, flashed across my mind.

I was so terrified to hurt him, yet here he was, willingly dragging me back to last night.

And I hated him for it.

With a defiant screech, I gripped his thick, hard shoulder, placed my thumb over his healing wound, and shoved in my finger with all my weight behind it. The bloody flesh squelched so horribly, I had to will my breakfast not to make a reappearance. But I clenched my teeth and pushed even harder.

Then, I kneed him in the groin as hard as my small body would allow.

He grunted out a few curse words and was off of me.

Seething, I scrambled to my feet and backed away from him, ready to strike if he tried anything like that again.

A gash on his lip dripped red from where I’d slammed my forehead against his mouth. His tongue darted out to lick the blood as his lips curled into a wry smile. A movement so unexpectedly sensual, it pissed me off even more.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, rising smoothly to his feet. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, dangerously captivating eyes locked on me.

“I thought you were going to… to…”

His left eyebrow lifted questioningly, daring me to say it .

I huffed angrily, at myself and at him, because I knew better than that. He would never.

“Had to make you believe it,” he said, brushing a few dead leaves off his black sweater sleeves. “That fucker may have been the first to force himself on you, but he may not be the last.”

“You’re a prick!” I gritted out, eyes burning.

“And I’ll happily be a prick for the rest of my gods-damned life if it means pissing you off enough to fight for yourself!”

Shaking, I shouted, “That crossed a line!”

“I agree,” he uttered, his voice coated with ice.

An unfamiliar sound left my throat—a growl, almost like his, but not near as menacing. I lunged to shove at him. “Then why did you—”

“Because!” he hissed, gripping my wrists in his calloused hands, firm but gentle. His eyes softened when he murmured low, “Because there is no line I will not cross for you .”

I could muster only a huffed-out breath in response. So I stepped back—pointedly distancing myself from him—and folded the tattered pieces of my black sweater over my exposed torso. I crossed my arms to hold the cloth in place and refused to meet his zealous stare.

In my periphery, I saw him lift his own black sweater over his head and cover the distance I’d put between us.

“Arms up.”

Still seething, I obeyed, eyes locked on the ground as a glorious gust of sweet, earthy leather and cedar washed over my head, around my body, soothing me . His sweater hung down to my knees, covering up every part of me he’d exposed with his attack and then some.

I detested myself for never wanting to take it off. And for the breathless gasp that left my lips when I looked up and saw his bare chest.

My lips parted, mouth agape, stunned by his remarkable form.

Rippling sinew stretched across the broad plane of his chest, connecting two mountainous arms made of flesh-coated steel .

I’d caught hints of the terrifying details of his physique that day he returned soaked to the bone from his hunt. Only now, he was bare, and… good gods .

My breath hovered low and uneven in my chest. His tattoos—the tally marks…

there had to be hundreds of them, looped around his forearms, elbow, and biceps, spanning across his rugged chest in rows before repeating the same design on his other arm.

And scars. So many scars, some faded and white, some dark, some pink and fresh. So much history and torment and blood…

I shuddered when I saw fresh blood oozing from the barely healed knife wound on his left shoulder. The one I put there days ago and reopened just now.

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t you dare apologize.” His deep voice was clipped, his jaw tight. “You will fight, you will survive, and you will apologize for nothing.”

He stepped to the side and gestured for me to pass before him back to the tavern.

I obeyed, but for the rest of the day, I refused to look at him or talk to him.

I knew why he’d done it, and though I would never admit it to him, I was glad he had.

That burst of energy—that defiant eruption I’d felt upon thrusting my momentum forward to hurt my attacker—had been missing last night.

And we both knew I’d needed to find whatever would make me fight.

To kill. If pure self-preservation wasn’t enough to motivate me, then I needed something else, another type of fuel.

I needed to find it now before someone even worse came after me.

And I’d found it. Injustice. Against others. Even against me. Hatred of all things unfair. I loathed myself for hurting him by accident while he attacked me, provoked me, scared me, willingly.

It had felt anything but fair .

He knew it. So he helped me find a drop of that fuel in a space that was safe.

Safe for me, though not his groin, flesh wound, or bloody lip.