Page 27 of A Shot at Love
She counted them down.
From the first series of strikes she knew without a doubt he could more than just hold his own. Kyros Pappandreos had some serious skill.
They started slow, each gaging the other’s reaction time, “getting the feel,” as he’d said, for the other’s ability. But in less than a minute the pace jumped. They parried and danced in a circle, each counterbalancing a move made by the other. For every lift of his stick to strike high, Gemma met his move and then changed the angle, first striking low, then lifting her arm. Back and forth, each maneuver challenging the other, the sounds of the sticks striking, wood to wood in a staccato rhythm, bounced off the walls.
At one point they were moving so fast, the sticks blurred in her vision and all she could do was let instinct and training take over her hands and arms, the weapons becoming an extension of her body.
How much time passed, she couldn’t guess, but her arms began to scream with the effort and speed they mounted.
Gemma met him, hit for hit, strike for strike. It was exhilarating, mentally and technically, to work with someone so well-schooled in the art. For many of the past several years, her master had recruited her into helping the less experienced students. When she’d been able to spar and fight with him, his proficiency level had elevated hers, forcing her to defend against moves no novice or amateur could. She’d grown as a fighter, cherishing each time she was able to implement her abilities.
And every one of those skills was put to the test with Ky as her partner.
Eventually, he slowed them down to where they were simply just tapping their sticks together, high strikes then low. Gemma was breathing hard, but wasn’t winded; she was elated. She wanted to push herself, push him, to see where they could take this.
“Enough,” he said, taking a step back and lowering his sticks to a neutral position.
Gemma mimicked his movement.
“You know what you’re doing,” she told him, measuring his breathing by the pace of his chest rising and falling. It gave her a subtle ego boost to realize he was breathing a little rougher than she was.
“As do you,” he answered. Respect and something deeper filled his gaze as he considered her. Gemma’s toes curled inside her sneakers as those hooded eyes regarded her. “You’ve had top-notch training.”
“My sensei believes if you’re going to learn something, you should master it to understand every nuance, every aspect of it.”
Ky nodded. “A sound practice.” He reached out a hand for her sticks. Mild disappointment flowed through her. She’d wanted to play some more.
“What else can you do?” he asked while he replaced them.
“I’m good at staff technique and knife.”
“How about hand-to-hand?”
Her brows pulled together. “Like sparring or grappling?”
“Either. Both. The disciplines you train in require you to be proficient in all aspects of combat, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“What would you say you need to work on more?”
She lifted her shoulders. “Grappling, probably. I don’t practice it enough. I haven’t done any for a while.”
Ky nodded. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“With you?”
Ky made a show of turning around the room. “I seem to be the only one here, so, yes.”
His mocking tone stood the hair on the back of her neck upright.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”
Pride, anger, and just plain pissed-off-ness broke through her. She lifted her chin and glared at him, realizing a little splash of hurt had mixed in with the other emotions.
“That’s a condescending thing to say.”
“I didn’t mean it to be.” His brows kissed over his eyes. “I was thinking more along the lines of you getting injured by taxing yourself. You’re still only a couple days out with that knee.”
She stayed silent.
“Want protective gear?”
“Protective gear’s for sissies,” she said, automatically. Her pulse shot up when his hooded eyes widened. “I train without gear. Always. My teacher believes it’s the best way to mimic the real world, and I agree.”
