Braeden should never have agreed to fight Sam. She was barely a week out of the infirmary, but even if she were in full health, he would be stronger and faster than she was. He knew what she’d do if he dared say that aloud—she would flamboyantly twirl her sword and accuse him of treating her like an ordinary girl. She was as strong and fast as any man, she’d say.

Braeden knew that. Sam was…amazing. Watching her fight was like watching a thunder storm—powerful and violent and beautiful. He’d never once doubted that she was a warrior, more than worthy of fighting alongside the most elite men.

What Sam refused to accept was that Braeden was no ordinary man. He wasn’t stronger and faster than her because she was a woman; he was stronger and faster than her because he was a monster. There wasn’t a man alive who could best him—not even Tristan—except his master, and he was as much a monster as Braeden was.

There was no reason for Braeden to participate in this absurd duel—what, would they fight in Sam’s silly pink bedroom?—and he’d meant to refuse her. But he was so damned weak when it came to Sam; it had taken one look at her crestfallen face and he’d relented.

What was the harm, really? He’d defeat her handily—maybe then she’d understand the threat he posed to her—and they would part on cordial if not friendly terms. Braeden remembered the last time they had almost said goodbye…His cheeks flushed involuntarily. He would not demand another kiss from her. Though she’d asked him to forget it, the memory of Sam’s lips on his would torture him for a lifetime.

“Will you fight me, Braeden?” There was a pleading desperation in Sam’s eyes that Braeden didn’t want to interpret. He had to remain steadfast, and that way lay temptation.

His dagger was already in his hands, but still he said, “This is foolishness, Sam. You will prove nothing.”

“I will agree that this is foolishness if you agree that leaving is foolishness.” Sam stepped closer to him, holding her scimitar straight out from her shoulder. “I know you don’t want to fight me, and I don’t want to fight you, either.”

Braeden wrapped his hand around her blade and felt the satisfaction of steel cutting into his palm. Sam winced. “Stop it,” she said.

“I would rather bleed until my body is dry and empty,” he said, “than draw a single drop of your blood. But that choice has been taken away from me.”

“I believe in you, Braeden,” Sam said. “I wish you’d believe in yourself.”

The strength of her conviction gutted him, and his frustration boiled over. “Stop deluding yourself, Sam! You know what I am! I am not the knight in shining armor in some ridiculous fairy tale—look to Tristan for that!”

“I. Don’t. Want. Tristan.” Sam enunciated each word. “And if this were a fairy tale, I’d be my own damned knight.”

Braeden let go of Sam’s sword and stalked toward her. “If you are the knight, then I am the dragon. Do you know how many innocent lives have died by my hand? Hundreds, Sam. Maybe more. I could rend the world in twain, and you would pretend that there is no evil within me. This man—this good and noble man—you imagine me to be, I’m not him, no matter how much I want to be.” He broke off. When he spoke again, his voice was harsh and low. “I am nothing more than a collared monster, and the High Commander holds my leash. I don’t trust myself, and neither should you.”

“Coward,” Sam spat. “That’s what you are. You would give up everything because you’re afraid of yourself. I know who and what you are, and I’m not afraid. Fight me, you coward!” She struck out with her scimitar, sliding it along his dagger.

He growled. “Don’t think I’ll go easy on you. I’ll show you what I really am.” He jammed his dagger into his heart and let the transformation take hold. He looked at Sam through a haze of red. “This is who I am. You should be afraid.”

Sam brandished her blade. “I won’t go easy on you either. I’m fighting to win.” Without warning, she thrust her sword at his heart.

Too slow. Braeden stepped neatly to the side and swung out with his knife, catching the underside of Sam’s scimitar. The blade jumped in her hand, but she didn’t lose her grip. She brought her sword down, smashing it into his dagger.

It was a mighty blow, and normally, Braeden would have dropped his knife. In his enhanced state, he didn’t even flinch. Sam spun, swiping her scimitar at his knees. Dropping into a crouch, he parried the attack. He rolled forward, closing the distance between them.

A dagger was a close range weapon, and a scimitar was not. Sam stepped backwards to allow herself more room, but Braeden wouldn’t give her the opening. He hit her blade with his knife, first from the left, then from the right. Slowly, he forced her across the room until her back was up against the wall.

Braeden drove his knee between her legs and brought his dagger to the side of her neck. He rested his forehead against hers. “Give up?”

Her eyes flashed. “Not a chance.” She leaned into his body and then bit him hard in the neck.

The sensation of her teeth against his skin caught him so off guard that he dropped his knife to the floor. “Shite,” he swore. Sam grinned at him and drove the hilt of her sword into his stomach. He grunted, and she pushed him off her.

He retrieved another knife from his robes, just in time to deflect her sword. “That trick will only work once,” he told her.

“I’ve got others,” she said, and lashed out with her scimitar.

Even as he fought her, he could not help but admire her. Her eyes were bright with excitement and her pale skin was pink with exertion. Her hair was wild and mussed; twisted locks of chestnut fell free from her braid, hugging her face. Sam, his warrior. He would die before he put her fire out.

Kill her.

Braeden twitched at the errant thought. Where had that come from? He wanted to end the fight, not Sam’s life. He shook himself and refocused on parrying Sam’s blade. He swung out with his dagger.

Swing. Hit. Block.

Kill her.

Braeden rubbed at his ear with his shoulder. Sam’s sword struck dangerously close to his side. A near miss.

Swing. Hit. Block.

Kill her kill her kill her.

Braeden stared at his knife. The tip of it dripped with red. Oh gods, Sam.

Gales of laughter assaulted his ears, the waves of sound wrapping him in a tight embrace. Kill her. The whispered command coiled around his limbs, and with each iteration, Braeden seized involuntarily, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings.

His puppeteer made himself known. Give in to it, Braeden, his master’s musical voice echoed inside his head. Give in to me. She plays your heartstrings like a fiddle; I won’t have you dance to her tune. You are my toy to play with, and mine alone. I staked my claim into your skin, and you will obey. Kill her.

Braeden’s muscles stretched and flexed, straining against his will. It would be so easy to slide his knife between her ribs or rip his teeth into her neck.

Kill her.

Braeden could no longer tell if the voice inside his head was the High Commander’s or his own. Bloodlust filled him to the exclusion of rational thought. Kill her.

The magic woven into his skin could not quieten his disobedient heart. In his heart, he saw Sam handing him stolen sweets from the Center kitchens. He saw her rain-soaked body curled against his for warmth. He felt her kiss, his salvation, pulling him back from the brink of madness, though it was madness in itself. He felt her hand, small but strong, intertwined with his.

And then he saw her—really saw her—seeing him. Green, green eyes, brimming with affection, not with fear. Never fear.

He loved her. He loved this brave, foolish girl who didn’t fear him.

His brave, foolish girl glared at him. The point of her blade was underneath his chin. “Did you just let me win?”

Kill her! raged his master. “Never,” Braeden said.

The angry red of his eyes began to fade. He blinked. “Oh gods, Sam.” Shakily, he held out his blood-drenched knife in front of him. “What have I done?”

Sam dropped her scimitar from his chin. “It’s your own blood, you idiot.” He stared at his dagger with abject disbelief. Sam let her sword fall to the floor and crossed to Braeden. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands. “Braeden, look at me. I’m unhurt.”

“Sam…”

She brushed his hard jaw with her knuckles. “I don’t care if you let me win. I still won. Now you have to stay.” She bit her lower lip. “Braeden, please stay.”

“I can’t,” he said raggedly. “Sam, the High Commander—”

“I don’t care about the High Commander!”

“He tried to get me to kill you!” Braeden shouted. “Just now, as we fought, his voice was in my head and I—I wanted to do it. He made me want to do it.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” he rasped. “I wanted you more.”

Her breath hitched, and she stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Braeden groaned. “Forgive me, Sam.” He fisted his hands in her hair and took her mouth with his.

His grip on her was firm, but his lips were gentle, tender. He kissed her as though she were precious, worshipfully, as if she would break beneath his touch.

Braeden went to pull away, but Sam wrapped her arms around him and pulled him back to her. Her lips were a whisper away. “I’m not saying goodbye,” she said. Her lashes flickered up and then closed. Tentatively, she placed her mouth back on his.

Braeden made a desperate sound in the back of his throat and crushed her against him. His tongue traced the seam of her lips and then greedily plundered within. Their tongues dueled like swords and their bodies trembled. She moaned, or maybe it was he.

He hadn’t thought she’d kiss him back. Couldn’t process it, couldn’t rein himself in. Couldn’t stop his hands from molding to her form and pressing her to the length of his body. The taste of her entered his bloodstream like a drug, and Braeden knew he’d die an addict.

Sam kissed him like she fought, with wildness and passion, and with a little mischief. Her lips left his mouth, latching on to the side of his neck. She bit him, right on top of where she’d bitten him before, and then licked it better.

Braeden broke away, gasping. His irises were clear now, and he looked at her with unrestrained hunger. “I’m a selfish bastard.” Gods help him, he wanted to kiss her again, to more than kiss her. “I should never have done that.”

She met his gaze and let him see her matching hunger. “I wanted you to. I still want you to.”

Braeden turned away from her. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t want me.”

He felt her glare at him. “I have always known my own mind,” she said. “Who are you to tell me what I want?”

He had to say it, had to make her understand. “The man who loves you.”

A/N: Photo by Syrkell on DeviantArt