Page 53 of Warrior Princess Assassin (Braided Fate #1)

I block, throwing her arm wide, but she’s quick and she has her other fist ready.

When I block twice, she changes tactics, grappling for my face.

Somewhere along the line, she figured out how to be ruthless with her thumbs, because there’s a moment where it’s unclear if she’s trying to gouge out my eyes or my windpipe.

At first, she’s smiling, her efforts tentative, but I match her strength and I don’t yield.

It doesn’t take long for her to realize that I’m not going to be like whatever guard or soldier has been assigned to give her a few sessions of “training.” Hell, she’s probably been taught by someone who’s been ordered to let her win without much effort.

Someone who’s never let her feel the power of a true victory, or the physical release of a real fight.

I feel the moment when our tussling shifts, when she throws her heart—or maybe her rage—into it.

Her swings become more sharp, her attacks more pointed.

We’ve been mostly silent, mindful of the sleeping soldiers surrounding the fire, but now we’re grappling with some force, and the sound of our breathing is heavy between us.

At some point, her nails dig into the skin of my neck, and she’s so determined that I suddenly can’t tell if she’s enjoying this or if she hates me for suggesting it.

When I shove her off, she scowls and comes at me full force.

This time, I let her tackle me, and we go skidding backward into the dirt.

When we roll, she ends up straddling me, and I want to ask what happened to the princess who declared I was being inappropriate a day ago.

Her thighs press into my waist, and I immediately forget that we’re tussling at all.

But her expression is all battle now, and I’m impressed at her ferocity.

Luckily I have enough training to fend off her attacks.

When she tries to grab a handful of dirt to throw in my face, I catch her wrist, flip her onto her back, and pin her.

It leaves me on top of her, pressing her forearms into the dirt. Her eyes are a bit wild, and she scrabbles for purchase, breathing hard.

“Easy,” I say softly. “We’re not really fighting, Princess.”

She stares up at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair in sweat-damp tendrils around her face. Her chest is heaving under mine.

“Oh,” she says between breaths. “Oh. Forgive me.”

“ Forgive you?” I brush a thumb over the inside of her wrist, then let go, bracing my hands in the dirt. “That was impressive.”

I expect her to roll away, but she reaches for my throat. Her thumbs trace over my skin where her nails dug in. “Did I do this?”

Every stroke of her touch is impossible to ignore. “Better there than my eyes,” I say.

Her blush deepens, and her fingers are so soft on my throat. “I’ve never fought with anyone like that before,” she says.

“I’ll fight with you anytime you like.”

Her eyes flare a little in surprise, but that curiosity hasn’t dimmed. Without warning, she swings for my face, and I barely catch her wrist before she makes contact.

“Like right now?” she says. She smiles, and somehow it feels like a reward.

I laugh a little, under my breath. She’s so different from Asher, and I find it fascinating, especially considering their connection. He’s full of violence and rage, and it’s completely unbound. Every time he settles under my touch, it’s like taming a wolf.

The princess is the opposite. This feels like freeing a caged falcon and hoping it returns to your hand.

Her wrist is still in my grip, but I’ve loosened my hold, so her fingers drift along my chin. It forces me still, especially when her eyes narrow a little, her fingers tracing through the beard growth as if it’s captivating.

I wonder if she’s ever touched a man like this.

The thought is striking, especially because her eyes have gone dark, her breathing quickening.

I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that her body is caged beneath me, that I could shift my weight a few inches and this would be an entirely different kind of tussling.

As soon as I have the thought, I’m as hard as a rock.

Her breath catches, and we’re pressed together so tightly that I’m sure she can feel it. But the instant I begin to pull away, she grabs hold of my tunic, holding me in place.

I have to remind myself of her innocence.

This is not a seduction. This is not a courtier angling for political sway, and it’s not a soldier looking to stay warm for a few hours.

We’re under the stars, surrounded by my men.

She’s a princess, destined for an alliance.

She deserves a slow and careful courtship, not impassioned rutting in a ravine.

But her eyes are wide and trusting, her lips parted slightly, her fingers exploring my jaw now that I’ve gone still. A strain has built in my shoulders from the effort of holding myself above her, but it would take a bolt from an arrow to convince me to move.

When her thumb runs along the ridge of my lower lip, my eyes fall closed, and I inhale a ragged breath. Her hips shift beneath me, and it’s almost my undoing, especially when she gasps.

I put a hand to her waist, holding her in place. “Princess...”

But instead of going still, she arches a little under my touch, her body moving against mine.

I shift my grip to pin her there, and she gasps—and then we scuffle.

Her chest swells with each breath, and her eyes have lit with challenge again.

Her fist is still clenching the front of my tunic, but this time it’s all eagerness, and not entirely about fighting at all.

It would take almost nothing for my hand to shift, for my fingertips to find the sensitive bud of her nipple.

Then scuffling turns to grappling, and the choice is made for me.

My thumb slides along the warm curve of her breast, and I drop my weight to pin her again.

Her lips part farther, this little gasp even sweeter than the first. When she arches into me again, her breast fills my hand.

I thrust against her without meaning to, and desire sparks in her eyes.

But there’s a flicker of uncertainty hiding there, too.

That reminds me to tread carefully. Her palm is still against my face, so I turn my head to kiss her hand. Then her wrist. Her fingers drift along my ear, brushing through my hair.

“I thought you didn’t want to tussle,” I murmur.

“I want...” But then her eyes flick left, and she inhales sharply. “ Asher .”

I freeze in place, then cast a glance in his direction, too. He’s no longer facing the fire, but he’s still lying on his stomach, propped on his elbows. His expression is in shadow, unreadable.

I have no idea how much he saw or what he thinks is happening, but I’m rather clearly pinning her to the ground—and I have been for a while.

“Ky,” she says swiftly. I can’t quite figure out the note in her voice, whether it’s guilt or regret or simply shock. “Let me up.”

I do. The princess shifts to sitting, but her cheeks are still red. Mine aren’t. Hostility sizzles in in the air, and I wonder if Asher is going to make me finish that fight he tried to start earlier.

But he doesn’t move. “Did he hurt you?” he says softly.

She looks up. “Asher. We weren’t—it wasn’t—”

“I know what it was,” he says, and his eyes flick to me. His words, however, are for her. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Did he force you?”

“No!” The color in her cheeks deepens. “Asher, that is not what we were—”

“Do I need to stab him for any reason?” He still hasn’t looked away from me, and his gaze is so piercing, even in the shadows. “The rest of them are asleep, so it’s the perfect time.”

Bleeding skies. I can’t tell if this is jealousy or anger or just plain belligerence, and I’m pretty sure he can’t either. But I’ve begun to learn that all of Asher’s posturing is really just a mask to hide a man who’s terrified of losing the few things he’s been able to hold dear.

He’s still propped on his elbows, glaring up at me, so I roll onto my knees until we’re close. Before I can think better of it, I touch a hand to his chin, letting my thumb drift right below his lip.

“Your princess is safe,” I say softly.

He’s stopped breathing, probably the instant I touched him. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. When his gaze shifts, I realize the princess has rolled to her knees beside me.

She touches a finger to his chin beside mine. “I’m safe,” she says softly.

His throat jerks as he swallows. But then he turns away, pulling free of both of us.

“Fine,” he says, and his voice is rough. “You win.” He shifts on his bedroll, turning to face the fire again.

The princess studies him for a moment, but she frowns. She tucks the loose hair behind her ear and looks at me. “It’s late,” she whispers. “We should sleep. I know you wish to depart at dawn.”

“I do,” I say.

She bites her lip and nods, then retreats to her own bedroll by Lady Charlotte.

Before she lies down, however, she looks over. “Dane really would have a fit,” she says.

It makes me grin. “I look forward to the next time, then.”

She smiles in return, and the heavy organ in my chest feels lighter than it has in days. Weeks. Months .

But then I glance toward Garrett, sitting at the opening of the ravine, watching for any sign of trouble. I remember why we’re camping here at all , and the weight of tense worry crashes into my chest again.

Garrett must sense my focus, because he turns in my direction, then signals a query. All well?

I nod, then shift onto my own bedroll between Asher and Sev.

Asher is facing me, but his eyes are closed, and his arms are curled in tight to his bare upper body. Every muscle is bunched, and there’s enough fire for me to see gooseflesh all over his skin.

Fine. You win.

I don’t want to touch him again, because I know it makes him anxious, despite how badly he seems to want it. When I speak, I keep my voice soft. “Asher.”

His eyes flick open, finding mine in the darkness. Dark and piercing, just as before.

“We are not at odds,” I say quietly. “This is not a competition.”

“I know,” he says. “Like I said, you’ve already won her affection.”

Maybe—but it doesn’t feel like something I’ve won. I think of the slow drag of her fingers through the scruff on my chin, the way it was almost inquisitive. It stirs something inside me—and I’m surprised to realize it’s not different from the way I felt about doing the same thing to him .

I hold his gaze. “That does not mean I’m stealing it away from you.”

He says nothing to that. Another gust of wind whips through the ravine, and he bites back a shiver. I watch him try to tuck his arms closer.

“You’re cold,” I say. “Move closer if you like.”

His mouth forms a line. He says nothing and turns back to the fire.

“Or not,” I say. I sigh, adjust my blankets, and rest my head on my arm. I don’t think I’ll sleep, but it’s been too many long days and nights in succession. Exhaustion eventually claims my thoughts.

Sometime later, I wake, and I realize that Asher’s face is all but pressed against my arm.

The moon is still high, and the air is still cold.

I lie there and wait to remember whatever nightmare woke me.

I wait for visions of my soldiers dying, Draeg soldiers ripping them limb from limb.

Bodies strewn on a battlefield, my own soldiers responding with equally vicious violence.

But for the first time in a while, I can’t remember a single dream. No blood, no death, no soldiers being torn apart while I watch, helpless. I’m warm and safe, sleep already calling me back.

Especially since Asher is quiet and still, his bare arms tucked between us, his wounded body stretched out alongside my own.