[Sebastian’s POV]
She's getting better.
I watch Tessa move through the training sequence, her blade catching the dim light as she executes a series of strikes I taught her three days ago. Her form isn't perfect—her left shoulder still dips too low on the backswing—but it's competent. Functional. A week ago she could barely hold a blade without telegraphing every move.
Now she moves like she was born to it.
Which, I suppose, she was. Nyx blood runs true, even when it's been dormant for over a century.
"Again," I say, circling her. "And this time don't drop your guard when you feint."
She resets her stance, sweat dampening the training leathers that fit her far too well. I force my attention back to her footwork.
Focus. That's what keeps people alive. Not power, not bloodline—focus.
Tessa lunges. I parry, testing her reaction time. She adjusts faster than yesterday, blade coming around for a counter that would actually work against a lesser opponent. I deflect it easily but I'm noting the improvement. The way her body remembers the movements now, instinct starting to override thought.
She's a quick study when she's not overthinking.
We trade blows, the rhythm building. Strike, parry, counter. Her breathing quickens but stays controlled. Good. Panic kills as surely as a blade to the throat.
Then she commits to a strike that leaves her open. I see the mistake before she does—she's put too much weight forward, won't be able to recover in time. I could end this in half a second.
Instead, I step inside her guard.
Big mistake.
Suddenly I'm close enough to smell her—sweat and something floral she must use in her bath. Close enough to see the flush spreading across her collarbone, the way her pulse hammers in her throat. Her eyes widen as she realizes she's trapped, my blade at her side, her own weapon useless at this distance.
"Dead," I say, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling in a way that makes my jaw tighten. "You're enjoying this."
"I'm doing my job."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive." Her lips curve slightly. "You like winning."
"I like you not dying." I step back, putting necessary distance between us. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" She's still smiling, testing boundaries she shouldn't test. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem very invested in—"
She gestures with her blade for emphasis, except she's forgotten she's still holding it. The tip catches on my shirt, and in trying to jerk it away, she loses her balance. I reach out instinctively to steady her, but she's already overcorrecting, spinning, and somehow we both end up tangled together in a mess of limbs and blades that would be comical if it weren't so goddamn dangerous.
We hit the mat hard. I manage to twist so she lands on top of me instead of getting crushed beneath my weight, but that means she's now sprawled across my chest, her face inches from mine, and every single thought in my head that isn't about her dies a quick death.
"That was..." she starts, slightly breathless.
"Stupid," I finish. "That was incredibly stupid. If this were real combat, we'd both be dead."
"But it's not real combat." Her eyes drop to my mouth briefly before snapping back up. "It's training."
"Training is supposed to prepare you for real combat." I should move. Should push her off me and restore the professional distance this situation requires. Instead, I'm very aware of her weight pressing me into the mat, the way her hair has come loose from its tie, falling around us like a curtain.
"Then maybe you should stop distracting me," she says, and there's challenge in her voice now. Challenge and something else that makes heat coil low in my gut.
"I'm not the one who just tripped over my own blade."
"You're not the one whose instructor gets this look on his face during training." She shifts slightly and I bite back a response that would be entirely inappropriate. "Like you're thinking about something other than whether my form is correct."
She's not wrong. And that's the problem.
"Get up." I keep my voice flat, controlled. "We're running the sequence again."
"Sebastian—"
"Now, Tessa."
She moves, finally, and I breathe easier with space between us. Stand, shake off the distraction, focus on what matters. Her eyes are still on me, hurt mixing with frustration.
"Why do you do that?" she demands. "Every time there's a moment between us, you shut down. Push me away."
"Because moments like that get you killed." I pick up my blade from where it fell. "You think the vampires who want you dead will care if you bat your eyes at them? Will hesitate because you're charming?"
"That's not what I—"
"You need to be better than good, Tessa. You need to be flawless." The words come out harsher than intended, but I can't seem to stop them. "Because the moment you mess up, the moment you get distracted or complacent or think you're safe—that's when they'll strike. And I won't be able to save you if you're not ready."
She stares at me, something shifting in her expression. "What aren't you telling me?"
Everything. I'm not telling her everything.
"We're training," I say instead. "Again. Defensive stance."
"Sebastian—"
I draw my blade, letting steel sing against leather. The sound cuts off whatever she was about to say. Her jaw sets and she mirrors the movement, falling into stance.
Good. Anger I can work with. Anger keeps her sharp.
We circle each other, and I let my mind drift back two days. To the conversation with Silas that's been eating at me since.
His private study, late afternoon. I'd requested the audience as soon as I'd heard the rumors.
"House Delacroix is gathering support," I'd told him. "Blackwood and Corvus have joined them. They're going to issue a Challenge."
Silas had looked tired. "On what grounds?"
"Legitimacy. They'll claim she's too convenient—an heir appearing from nowhere after centuries. They'll demand she prove her power publicly. Demonstrate Nyx abilities." I'd kept my voice even. "And if she fails..."
"How long?"
"A week. Maybe less." I'd turned to face him fully. "She needs to know. Needs to prepare."
"No." The single word stopped me cold. "She's already under immense pressure. If we tell her now, she'll panic. Second-guess herself." Silas had stood. "She's been tormented for three years by vampires who convinced her she was worthless. We tell her about the Challenge, she'll believe them. Believe she'll fail before she tries."
I'd wanted to argue. But I'd seen the lingering doubt in her eyes despite her growing power.
"Keep training her," Silas had continued. "Push her hard. Get her ready without telling her why. When the Challenge comes, she'll be prepared."
"And if she figures out I'm keeping this from her?"
"Then she'll be angry." A faint smile. "But alive. I can live with her anger, Sebastian. I can't live with her dead."
So I'd agreed. Taken the order and buried my own doubts beneath duty.
But now, watching Tessa attack with frustration fueling her strikes, I wonder if I've made a mistake. If Silas has made a mistake.
She deserves to know what's coming.
And I'm lying to her by omission every time she looks at me and asks why I'm pushing so hard.
Our blades meet with a sharp crack. She's angry now, putting real force behind her strikes. Good. That anger might be what saves her when the Challenge comes.
I just hope it's enough.