Seris:
Training with Ariane is a form of exquisite torture.
Every strike she throws at me, every drop of sweat that rolls down her skin—it’s agony.
Watching her fight like her life depended on it is one of the most beautifully poetic things I've ever witnessed, and by the time we finished, the stars were out.
She was panting beside me on the grass, hair tangled, cheek smeared with dirt and dried blood from her knuckles.
Her lips were parted as she worked to catch her breath, and her eyes—gods, her eyes—they were shining with stubborn fire.
“You’re done,” I rasp, trying to steady my breath.
She turns her head toward me, smirking like the devil herself. “You don’t get to decide that.”
No. I don’t. And that’s the curse of it.
She rises before I can speak again, brushing grass from
