Not that I’m not complaining about that. But ever since St Michael’s, Dante hasn’t touched me, and Jude and Lorcan together seem to think they’re going to break me.
Well, they’re not.
Dante heads over to his training gear and selects two very blunt-looking blades. He tosses me one. I catch it easily, frowning when I run a finger over the edge. Dull as dishwater. I give him a look.
“Do you have any real knives?”
He snorts and heads over to his killing tools. He takes out a wrap of material and selects two of the meanest, fuck-off strike knives. This time he doesn’t throw one at me. He walks over and hands it to me, hilt first.
“Please don’t accidentally kill me during edged-weapons training,” he says.
“What about deliberately?”
He stares at me for a few seconds until I flash him a grin.
“Just be careful,” he says with a shake of his head.
I’m not careful, far from it. Every time he gets too close, I funnel my rage into slicing parts of him off. He dodges quickly and efficiently each and every time. Pretty soon, we’re both sweating, bruised, and covered in small bloody gashes, mostly me. Our clothes haven’t fared too well either. Where I haven’t sliced him, I’ve managed to cut ribbons into his clothes.
“This was my favorite shirt,” Dante chides, eyeing me with what looks to be newfound respect. I should hope so. I’ve not let up once.
“It’s black, just like every shirt you own,” I say.
He gives me a look, an evil-looking one, and lunges. I block, barely.
“Stay outside of kicking range,” Dante says in a smooth voice. He lunges again, and I move quicker this time, giving him a wider berth. “Come on, V, defang the snake. Why am I still holding this weapon?”
I snarl at that. “You have better timing,” I say, and he does. For every strike I get, he gets five more. If this were a real fight, I’d be dead.
“Feel for that split second when you can connect to your target and then strike. Don’t hesitate.”
I lunge for him, missing by a centimeter. He uses my mistake to give me a warning cut on my hand.
“That would have disarmed you.” He pivots and slashes again at my throat. “And that would have killed you.”
I’m so fucked off with him that I do what I’ve wanted to do this entire time; I throw the knife at him. It misses, narrowly, plunging into the wall of the gym behind him.
“If you’re trying to kill me, that was a piss poor attempt,” he snaps, whipping his attention back to me after seeing where it landed.
Now, I’ve upset the beast.
He seizes my knife from where it’s stuck. I tilt my head, jutting out my chin as he marches up to me and hands it back. “Here’s my fucking heart, Viola,” he says in a clipped voice, stepping in dangerously close, ice blue eyes tearing into me where I stand. “You want me dead, then do it.”
Viola. He called me Viola.
I glare at him, and he stares back. He’s so close; I could take him out. I could end Dante Black for good.
My heart thuds in my chest, my mouth runs dry, and I do nothing. Absolutely nothing.
He takes my hand, gripping the hilt, and places the blade’s tip over his chest. The piercing slice of his eyes is almost demonic as he looks down on me.
“Here is my heart.” He puts pressure on the knife. “Now cut the damn thing out.”
My eyes become slits as he carves the edge over his skin. I glance down, seeing the well of blood under his shirt.
“You think I won’t?” I grit out.
“No…I think you will. I just can’t be bothered dancing around your games any longer.” He stops slicing and starts forcing the blade into his flesh, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with ice-cold rage.