Slowly, Leto knelt to retrieve his shield and weapon of choice—the mace. His pulse was up, surging as it always did when anticipating a fight. More troubling was how his cock stirred beneath the hard plating of his armor. Sex and violence twined together. Had for generations. There was a practical reason why victors were awarded the prize of flesh. Potent aggression didn’t fade. It built and built, seeking release. Allied warriors were tempted down from that high by means even more satisfying than wringing each other’s necks—by slaking the primeval shock of life-and-death combat. It was glorious when done so between slick thighs.

He’d never reacted that way before a fight. Release came afterward.

Leto kicked the rest of the weapons down the corridor that led to the gate of her cell. Beneath the wan light of the bare lightbulbs, he and Nynn circled one another.

“I will be your first opponent in combat,” he rasped.

As if claiming her. Making her his, even in this violent way.

“Seems we’ve been evenly matched so far. You wear a bandage and new armor.” She grinned. Slinky. Sly. “Give me what you can, sir.”

With that, she attacked.

Audrey had only wanted to knock that smug expression off his scarred face. He was mortal. Fallible. The scar angling on his lip and the whip marks crisscrossing his back proved as much. He could be injured, bested, maybe even defeated.

Not that day. Not by her.

Her dagger glanced off his armor. He didn’t need to use his mace, only swung his shield as easily as a kid with a Frisbee. The edge of blunt metal hit her in the gut. Her thick leather training armor protected her from the worst of the damage. Yet the hit still rattled her bones. She bit her tongue as she landed on hands and knees.

Instinct commanded her to lift her shield. The head of the mace cracked down where her head would’ve been. She rolled out of the way and again crouched in a defensive stance.

“You asshole! Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’m finding your limits,” he said with a tight grin. “Apparently that wasn’t one of them.”

Audrey gasped for breath. The dagger’s hilt fit as if it had been molded to her palm. The shield was the perfect weight. Why was this remotely possible? She had trained from childhood to defend herself, and worst case, to defend Malnefoley. Never with weapons like these. She shouldn’t have the foggiest idea how to hold these implements.

But she did. It felt like coming home to a home she’d never known.

Sweat gathered under her arms. “What’s the silk for? In the armor.”

“Clan Garnis taught the samurai how to use it, centuries ago. Silk prevented arrows from embedding in the skin. Tug the fabric. Out they come.”

“It’s hot as hell.”

“At least I won’t withhold your water rations.”

“Small mercies.”

He kicked the toe of his boot beneath the edge of her shield. Her forearm wrenched upward. For a split second she was undefended. Only when the mace descended again did she act. A quick roll. A slice of her dagger. She missed setting metal to skin, but so did the mace. The round, spiked club swung past her armored shoulder. The breath of its movement was close enough to tousle her short hair. Leto caught its momentum by collecting the slack of the chain with one swift adjustment of his grip.

“Nearly.”

“Nearly,” he echoed.

“And the armor on only one shoulder. Why?”

“Do you always talk so much when fighting?”

“I’m learning, remember?” They breathed in tandem. Audrey licked her lips. “My martial instructor never let his students say anything other than yes or no. Maybe you’re a step up.”

Muscles bunched on both sides of his jaw. She could see his pulse where it throbbed at his temple, where shorn hair revealed the tips of his snake tattoo. The vigor of his blood gave life to the ink.

“Hold still and I’ll answer your question about the armor.” He dropped the mace and his shield. “I mean it. Hold perfectly still or this session will be very messy.”

The intensity of his hypnotic voice—a weapon in itself—meant she could only nod.

Faster than imaginable, he stole her dagger. A single slice cut through her shield’s leather cinch. It dropped, useless, to the ground. She was stripped within a heartbeat. Every cell in her body wanted to fight back. Run. Scream.

She held still.

Leto stabbed the dagger in a sharp, angled arc toward her armored shoulder. His right hand. Her right shoulder. The blade glanced along the metal and leather, as if shooting down a slide. He switched the dagger to his left hand and cut upward. Again the blade had no effect. It caught in the layers.

“Twist away!”

She responded instantly, spun and dropped low. The dagger stayed embedded in the leather, yanked out of Leto’s grasp.

He was far less winded than she, but his breath still echoed through the dark cell.

Leto nodded tersely. “The armor hugs the arm you use to hold your weapon. The exposed arm. An attack would need to be incredibly forceful to pierce so many layers.”

Audrey glanced toward her bare left shoulder. “And this one is free to maneuver with the shield. I guess that lesson was ‘don’t lose your Dragon-damned shield.’ ”

Admiration flickered across his features. The thrill of their sortie had momentarily obscured her true goals. She hadn’t even wanted to best him.

She’d only wanted his approval.

What the hell did that matter? She needed this condescending brute for what he could teach her.

“But you,” she said. “You can fight equally well with both hands.”

“Honing my gift—my reflexes—helped guide me. Now my muscles react before I do.”

“A Cage warrior acting with brawn instead of thought? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“You would do well to keep from taunting a man who stripped your shield.”

She grabbed the hilt of her knife. Pulled it free of the leather layers. Settled it into the palm of her right hand. “I’m not defenseless.”

He stalked toward her. She stared at the movement of thighs forged of pure muscle. Looking up his body sent an ancient shiver of awareness to her fingers and toes. His features were perfectly symmetrical, with a decisive brow that probably revealed more than he realized. Straight nose. Surprisingly wide eyes rimmed with thick lashes as dark as his hair. There was no telling his age. Few lines creased his smooth, flawlessly tan skin.

And his mouth. Lower lip just this side of full. Upper lip slashed by that old, silvery scar. It was the only hint of imperfection on an otherwise captivating face.

Her awareness shot inward, deeper than fear or hunger or vengeance. A shiver settled low in her belly. To admit she was aroused seemed tantamount to betraying Caleb’s memory and Jack’s innocent struggle to survive.

Yet he was sexy in the basest, most primitive sense. Weapons and armor and strength. Unequaled skills. He possessed confidence she doubted could ever be matched. Rather than wanting to divest him of that confidence, she wanted to get closer, soak it up, know what it was like to look at the world with such unabashed certainty.

She truly couldn’t remember what certainty felt like.

He crossed his arms. Default stance. Proving a point, marking his territory, and ready for attack—all at once. Power coiled there, barely leashed. Dark eyes glittered. The lights bathed him in garish bronze that shadowed his features and accentuated his blunt, prominent muscles.

“Do not get cocky, Nynn. This is still training. The first hours of your training. Admit what you must and I will give you one ration.”

Inhaling deeply, she looked down at the ground. She realized she was bowing. It didn’t matter. She needed food. Whatever he wanted her to admit would be worth what he offered. Energy for another round. Maybe he could break her after all, beyond the physical. The journey between pride and submission had shortened.