“Yes.”

He stepped closer, and she couldn’t help but think of how he’d approached last night, the way those hands had grasped her hips as he’d pounded into her from behind. Something must have shown on her face, because he said in a low voice, “You’ve certainly been productive, Nes.”

She swallowed, and knew the two females beside her were eating up every word. But she lifted her chin. “When do we get to do something of use? When do we start on archery or swords?”

“You think you’re ready to handle a sword?”

Emerie let out a fizzing noise, but kept working.

Nesta refused to smile, to blush, and said without breaking Cassian’s stare, “Only you can tell me that.”

His nostrils flared. “Get up.”

Cassian had told himself two dozen times since walking out of that bedroom that the sex had been a mistake. But watching Nesta challenge him, the innuendo like a sizzling flame, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

Something to do with her only wanting sex, something to do with the sex being the best damn sex he’d ever had, and how it had left him in veritable pieces.

Nesta blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the center of the pit. “You heard me. You think you’re ready to handle a sword, then prove it.”

Her friends were clearly aware of what they’d done last night. Emerie couldn’t even hide her laughing, and Gwyn kept sneaking looks at them.

He barked at the two females, “Finish your exercises now or do double.”

They stopped their gawking.

Nesta was still staring up at him, sweat and exertion filling that beautiful face of hers with color. A bead of perspiration slid down her temple, and he had to clench his fists to keep from leaning in to lick it away. She asked, “We’re going to learn swords?”

He aimed for the rack across the ring and she followed. “We’re going to start with wooden practice swords. Over my rotting corpse am I putting actual steel into the hands of novices.”

She snickered, and he stiffened. He tossed over a shoulder, “If you’re too childish to talk of blades without giggling, then you’re not ready for swordplay.”

She scowled. But Cassian said, “These are weapons of death.” He let his voice lift so all the females could hear him, though he spoke only to her. “They need to be treated with a healthy dose of respect. I didn’t even touch a real sword for the first seven years.”

“Seven years?” Gwyn demanded behind them.

He reached the rack and drew out a long blade, a near-replica of the Illyrian one down his back. “You think children should be swinging around a real sword?”

“No,” Gwyn sputtered. “I just meant—do you plan for us to practice with wooden swords for seven years?”

“If you three keep giggling, then yes.”

Nesta said to Gwyn and Emerie, “Don’t let him bully you.”

Cassian snorted. “Dangerous words for a female about to go head-to-head with me.”

She rolled her eyes, but hesitated when he extended the practice sword to her hilt-first. “It’s heavy,” she observed as she took its full weight.

“The real sword weighs more.”

Nesta glanced to his shoulder, where the hilt of his blade peeked over. “Really?”

“Yes.” He nodded to her hands. “Double-handed grip on the hilt. Don’t choke up too close to the shaft.”

Emerie began coughing, and Nesta’s mouth twitched, but she held it—fought it. Even Cassian had to tamp down a laugh before he cleared his throat.

But Nesta did as he bade.

“Feet where I showed you,” he said, well aware of every eye on them. From the way Nesta’s face turned grave, Cassian knew she was aware, too. That this moment, with these priestesses watching, was pivotal, somehow.

Vital.

Nesta met Cassian’s stare. And every thought of sex, of how good it had felt, eddied from her head as she lifted the blade before her.

It was like a key sliding into a lock at last.

It was a wooden sword, and yet it wasn’t. It was a part of practice, and yet it wasn’t.

Cassian walked her through eight different cuts and blocks. Each was an individual move, he’d explained, and like the punches, they could be combined. The most difficult thing was to remember to lead with the hilt of the sword—and to use her entire body, not just her arms.

“Block one,” he ordered, and she lifted the sword perpendicular to her body, raising upward against an invisible enemy. “Slice three.” She rotated the blade, reminding herself to lead with the stupid hilt, and slashed downward at an angle. “Thrust one.” Another pivot and she lunged forward, slamming the blade through the breastplate of an imaginary enemy.

Everyone had stopped to watch.

“Block three,” Cassian commanded. Nesta switched to a one-handed grip, her left hand coming up to her chest, where he’d told her to hold it. That would be her shield hand, he’d said, and learning to keep it tucked close would be key to her survival. “Slice two.” She dragged the sword in a straight line upward, splitting that enemy from groin to sternum. “Block two.” She pivoted on one foot, dragging the sword from that enemy’s chest to intercept another invisible blow.

None of her movements possessed any semblance of his elegance or power. They were stilted and it took her a second to remember each of the steps, but she told herself that would take more than thirty minutes of instruction. Cassian had reminded her of that often enough.

“Good.” He crossed his arms. “Block one, slice three, thrust two.”

She did so. The movements flowed faster, surer. Her breath clicked into sync with her body with each thrust.

“Good, Nesta. Again.”

She could see the muddy battlefield, and hear the screams of friend and foe alike. Each movement was a fight for survival, for victory.

“Again.”

She could see the King of Hybern, and the Cauldron, and the Ravens—see the kelpie and Tomas and all those people who had sneered at the Archerons’ poverty and desperation, the friends who had walked away with smiles on their faces.

Her arm was a distant ache, secondary to that building song in her blood.

It felt good. It felt so, so good.

Cassian threw out different combinations, and she obeyed, let them flow through her.

Every hated enemy, every moment she’d been powerless against them simmered to the surface. And with each movement of the sword, each breath, a thought formed. It echoed with every inhale, every thrust and block.

Never again.

Never again would she be weak.

Never again would she be at someone’s mercy.

Never again would she fail.

Never again, never again, never again.

Cassian’s voice stopped, and then the world paused, and all that existed was him, his fierce smile, as if he knew what song roared in her blood, as if he alone understood that the blade was an instrument to channel this raging fire in her.

The other females were utterly silent. Their hesitation and shock shimmered in the air.

Slowly, Nesta broke her stare from Cassian and looked to Emerie and Gwyn, already moving across the ring. Cassian had the wooden swords ready by the time they arrived.