The abandoned courtyard smelled of damp earth and iron, the remnants of a rainstorm clinging to the cracked stones. Yolanda flexed her fingers, the leather gloves Marcus had forced on her were turning hard against her palms. Too tight. Like everything else lately.
“Again,” Marcus barked, twin daggers glinting in the moonlight. She charged forward, precise but unable to land a hit. “Stop overthinking. Your wolf isn’t a sword, it’s your blood. Let it move you.”
She hated when he talked like this. Poetic. Cryptic. As if her wolf were some feral muse and not a knot of instincts that left her trembling most nights. But she bit back the retort, rolling her shoulders instead.
Her first strike was clumsy. Marcus sidestepped, his blade grazing her ribs. “Too slow.”
The second, a feint left,
