Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I swallow thickly. “Then I don’t want to know the answer.”

“You will.” He lets a lazy smile crawl up his face. He takes a step back, arms hanging loosely at his sides. “Now, we fight.”

Just like that, the moment between us is doused, old fire beneath a toss of water. I blink quickly and shake my head, as if I’m waking up from a dream.

“If you want to see your guards, this is the only way,” he reminds me.

All of those confusing emotions roiling through me get shoved beneath the mask of his smug arrogance. I’m a puppet being made to jump through hoops. I just need to get this over with.

“Fine,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

“For one, we’ll start with your stance. It’s all wrong.”

I look down at my body. “What’s wrong with it?”

“You’re too tense. If I were to come at you right now, you’d be too locked up to react smoothly,” he explains, circling me again. “You need to be ready to move, not have such a stranglehold on your muscles.”

I have to force myself to let out a steadying breath, and only then does my body relax a fraction.

“Better,” he says.

And then he comes at me.

No warning, no change of expression, nothing.

He flashes forward quicker than I can blink, and then I’m on my back, staring up at the sky in shock, while the air is knocked out of my lungs and puffed out in a cloud that hovers above my lips.

Rip stands over me with his arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

I manage to get up, choking on breath, shoving snow off my ass as I stand. “You prick!”

He grins. Actually grins at me, teeth and all. I forget all about his otherworldly beauty, about the strange moment that was just between us. Right now, I just want to smack him.

“What the hell was that?” My words spark with anger, a fire wanting to catch.

“We’re fighting,” he reminds me, still amused as hell.

“I wasn’t ready!”

“Your opponent isn’t going to do a countdown, Auren,” he explains, like I’m an idiot.

“I can’t fight you,” I snap. He’s too strong, too experienced, and I don’t want to turn into that little girl grappling in the street, getting my ass handed to me every time I’m shoved forward.

“No? That’s unfortunate for you,” Rip replies.

He spins—I don’t even know how he does it so fast—and then he’s suddenly behind me. He hooks one arm beneath both mine and pulls them against my back, wrenching a grunt of pain from my lips. His other hand presses between my shoulder blades as he tips me forward, completely at his mercy with my ass jutting into his thigh.

“Try to break away,” he says calmly, like he doesn’t have me bent to his will, sputtering like a hissing cat.

I struggle, but I realize very quickly that I can’t straighten up because he’s too strong, holding me too firmly. I can’t lean forward either, because I’d just land on my face. I can’t even get my arms out of his hold with the way he’s gripping me. My ribbons tense and swivel at my spine like snakes provoked, wanting to lunge and bite. I grit my teeth, hold them back, keep them wrapped.

“I can’t.”

Rip clicks his tongue in disapproval.

A second later, I’m released. My steps stumble, barely keeping me upright with his sudden departure. When I look up, he’s already in front of me again, ready and cocky. I glare at him, shoving hair out of my face, while he stands there with brooding cockiness. The ends of my ribbons trill.

“Try and hit me,” he says.