Page 138 - Fourth Wing

He blocks my strike with his forearm, then grips my wrist with his

opposite hand and plucks the knife out of my hand, leaning down so his
face is only inches from mine. “Going for blood today, are we, Violence?”

he whispers. Metal hits the mat again and he kicks it past my head and out

of my reach.
He’s not taking my daggers to use against me; he’s disarming me just to

prove he can. My blood boils.

“My name is Violet,” I seethe.
“I think my version fits you better.” He releases my wrist and stands,

offering me a hand. “We’re not done yet.”

My chest heaves, still recovering from the way he’s knocked the wind out
of me, and I take the offering. He tugs me to my feet, then twists my arm

behind my back and yanks me against his hard chest, pinning our joined
hands before I have a chance to get my balance.

“Damn it!” I snap.

There’s a tug at my thigh and another of my daggers is pressed to my
throat as his chest rests against the back of my head. His forearm is locked

across my ribs, and he might as well be a statue for all the give there is in
his frame. There’s no use slamming my head back—he’s so tall that I’d

only annoy him.

“Don’t trust a single person who faces you on this mat,” he warns in a
hiss, his breath warm against the shell of my ear, and even though we’re

surrounded by people, I realize he’s quiet for a reason. This lesson is just

for me.
“Even someone who owes me a favor?” I counter, my voice just as low.

My shoulder starts to protest the unnatural angle, but I don’t move. I won’t

give him the satisfaction.
He drops the third dagger he’s taken from me and kicks it forward—to

where Dain stands, the other two already in his hand. There’s murder in his
eyes as he glares at Xaden.