Page 89 of Salt Kiss
I’m jealous of Isolde in a brand-new way as I walk down to the dojo after I eat. Of course, I’m still miserable that she gets to marry Mark, share his life and his attention and his bed, but now I’m also jealous ofwhoshe is.Howshe is. Elegant and crisp. Contained and mysterious. I want to be those things so badly, instead of the tortured, needy mess that I am.
No wonder I’m no one’s fiancé.
Isolde is already in the dojo when I get there, holding a rubber knife by the blade. She extends it hilt-first to me. “Want to spar today?”
I don’t take it. Instead, I eye her, slender and short. She barely comes up to my shoulder, and for all those tight muscles of hers, there’s no doubt in my mind that I have almost a hundred pounds on her.
Plus—okay, Mark would scoff at this—but sparring a woman feels wrong. There were no women in my BCT group, and I’ve never mock-fought a woman before. The only women I’ve fought were Carpathian rebels, and we were actually trying to kill each other.
Isolde correctly interprets my hesitation. “I’ll be fine, Tristan,” she says with an almost-smile. “I promise.”
“Isolde...”
“You’ll pull your strikes, right?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Then I’ll be fine,” she insists. For her part, she looks like she means it. She also looks like she thinks I’m being very parochial right now.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to make her understand why it’s a bad idea. “Mr. Trevena will kill me if I hurt you.”
“How is he going to kill you? I thought you said he was no good at fighting.” Then she pauses, tilts her head the tiniest amount. Her braid moves over her shoulder as she does. “Do you call him Mr. Trevena in your head too?”
“In my thoughts, he’s Mark,” I admit. And then feeling like that exposes too much, I revert to our original subject. “I don’t have a cup on.”
Isolde’s eyebrow lifts. “I’ll be mindful of future Thomas generations.”
That was almost a joke! I feel like I’ve pried a pearl from an oyster, or a gem from a hunk of cold rock. And then I reach for the knife.
I have no resistance to her when she’s playful and entreating.
Her lips press, like she’s trying to hide a real smile now, and then she goes to find another rubber knife.
“Why knives?” I ask. “Why not spar empty-handed?”
“I like knives,” she says simply as she returns. Leave it to Mark to marry a little thing who saysI like knivesthe same way most people sayI like ice cream.“Don’t you?”
“I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”
“More of a gun guy?”
“More of a whatever gets the job done guy,” I state, and she gives me a long look, like she’s trying to figure out whether I’m lying. I’m really not—the job is the job, and whether the job requires guns, fists, or a seven-inch Army bayonet makes no difference .
She bows to me and I mimic her, and then we both shift into a fighting stance. Hers is almost balletic—light and agile, her free hand up in a gesture that reminds me of the way her uncle blessed her before she left Cashel House.
I feel like an oaf in comparison, more used to fighting in boots and body armor than sidling barefoot on cushioned mats, my tread heavy and obvious as we start to circle each other. But even so, my shadow stretches over her, and each of my steps is like two of hers. It would be nothing for me to take her down, so I remind myself to be slow, be careful, and—
Like a sprung snare, she’s snapped forward and struck me, rubber poking hard into my stomach.
I blink at her. What the fuck?
She’s already resettling in her stance. Her pulse isn’t beating any harder in her neck. “I told you I’d be okay,” she says, tossing the knife into reverse grip and lifting her guard again. “I’m not made of sugar.”
Well. Fine, then.
This time, I watch her differently. I watch her shoulders, her hips, the sources of her striking power. I see her guard dip ever so slightly and then lunge in—only to have the rubber edge of her knife drag across my throat.
A trick. Shit.
