Claws and Fangs

The sparring room was hidden at the far end of the east wing, past towering suits of armor and heavy oak doors. The walls were lined with ancient weapons — swords, daggers, and axes — though now they only served as decoration. In the center of the room, polished hardwood gleamed beneath the dimmed lights, marking the arena where many had once trained for battle.

Zhera stared at the empty space, her arms folded stubbornly across her chest. "This is ridiculous," she muttered under her breath.

"You're the one who claimed she could take me down, princess," Xavriel said from behind her, his voice rich with amusement.

She turned to glare at him — and immediately regretted it.

Xavriel was dressed in loose black sweats and a fitted, sleeveless shirt that clung to his chiseled frame. His inky black hair was tousled, a few strands falling messily over his forehead, and his dark, unreadable eyes gleamed with a lazy sort of danger. His arms — all lean muscle and barely contained strength — flexed casually as he tied his hair back into a low, messy knot.

Zhera's throat went dry.

'Focus, Zhera. Focus!' she screamed internally.

She squared her shoulders, pretending not to notice the way his shirt dipped slightly at the neckline, revealing the strong cut of his collarbone.

"I didn't say today," she grumbled.

Xavriel only smirked, stepping into the center of the mat. "Scared?"

Zhera bared her teeth in an exaggerated grin. "Not of you."

"Good," he said, tilting his head, his voice low and lethal. "Then prove it."

There was something electric in the air as they faced each other. A hum of tension. Of something unsaid.

Xavriel gestured lazily. "Come at me."

Zhera hesitated. "You want me to attack first?"

He shrugged a shoulder, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Unless you'd rather forfeit now. Save yourself the humiliation."

Her blood boiled at the smugness in his tone. Without thinking, she lunged.

He dodged her effortlessly, a blur of movement as he sidestepped, catching her wrist mid-strike and twisting it behind her back in one smooth, elegant motion.

Zhera gasped, feeling the firm press of his body at her back. His scent — cold and earthy like the first night of winter — flooded her senses.

"You'll have to be faster than that," he murmured against her ear.

She growled, twisting sharply. Somehow, she managed to slip from his grip, pivoting to face him. He looked vaguely impressed.

"Good," he said, flashing a hint of fang in a grin. "Again."

This time, Zhera went low, aiming a sweeping kick at his legs. Xavriel hopped backward gracefully, his body moving like smoke — untouchable, fluid. He was toying with her, and they both knew it.

"You're enjoying this," she accused, breathless.

"Of course," he said shamelessly, eyes glittering. "It's not every day I get to wrestle a wildcat princess."

Zhera flushed hotly, her pride bristling. She feinted left — then dove right, aiming for his ribs.

Their bodies collided — she crashed into him with a force that should have sent them both sprawling — but Xavriel barely moved. His hands caught her easily by the waist, steadying her, holding her effortlessly.

The contact was electric.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Zhera's palms were flat against his chest, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her fingers. He was warm — impossibly warm for a vampire — and so solid it made her breath hitch.

Xavriel looked down at her, something dangerous flickering in his eyes.

"Are you done throwing yourself at me?" he drawled lazily, his voice a low purr.

Zhera shoved herself backward with a huff, cheeks burning. "You're impossible."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, princess," he said, smirking.

She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, glaring at him. "Again," she snapped.

He chuckled under his breath, the sound dark and amused. "As you wish."

They sparred for another half-hour — or at least, Zhera tried to spar.

Xavriel remained infuriatingly out of reach, dodging her every strike with minimal effort. He never struck back — never hurt her — but he used his strength to trap her in holds, pin her wrists, flip her onto the mat with humiliating ease.

Every time she hit the ground, he offered her a hand up, his expression unreadable.

Every time, Zhera slapped it away and got up herself.

The fourth time he flipped her onto her back, he didn't immediately let go.

Instead, he leaned over her, pinning her wrists to the mat above her head, his knees bracketing her hips.

Zhera froze. Her heart hammered painfully against her ribs.

Xavriel's hair had come loose from its knot, falling messily around his face. A single lock of black hair brushed against his sharp jawline. His lips — full and slightly parted — hovered above hers, and for a second, Zhera could almost imagine he would lean down, kiss her, devour her—

"You're dead," he said softly.

Zhera blinked.

He smirked, letting go of her wrists and pushing himself gracefully to his feet.

Zhera remained flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, feeling like an idiot.

He offered her his hand again. This time, she took it grudgingly, and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet.

"Not bad," Xavriel said. "For a spoiled princess."

Zhera narrowed her eyes. "I will take you down eventually."

He chuckled low in his throat. "I'm looking forward to it."

There was a glint in his dark eyes that made her stomach flip.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Hungry.

It was the same look he had given her that night when he pulled her into his room — when he pinned her beneath him with nothing but his presence and a single look.

Zhera swallowed hard and looked away.

"I need water," she muttered, heading toward the table at the edge of the room where a pitcher sat.

Xavriel watched her go, his arms folding casually over his chest. His smirk lingered — but behind it, something darker brewed.

Desire.

Amusement.

Danger.

He leaned casually against the wall, eyes never leaving her.

Zhera poured herself a glass of water, her hand trembling slightly. She knew he was watching. She felt it, like a tangible touch against her skin.

When she turned around, he was still staring.

"You're staring," she said, lifting her chin stubbornly.

"I am," he agreed shamelessly.

"Why?"

He pushed off the wall in one fluid movement, closing the distance between them in two slow, predatory steps.

"Because you're interesting," he said simply.

Zhera backed up instinctively, hitting the table behind her.

"Interesting?" she repeated, her voice a little too high.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured, leaning down, his face inches from hers. His breath was cool against her lips. "Not weak. Not helpless."

He traced a gloved finger lightly down the side of her jaw, making her shiver.

"But still reckless," he finished, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper.

Zhera's hands curled into fists at her sides. She hated how easily he flustered her — how her body reacted to him even when her mind screamed to resist.

She hated him.

She wanted him.

"You're an ass," she said sweetly, batting his hand away.

Xavriel laughed — a low, rich sound that made her toes curl.

"And you're terrible at taking compliments," he said, stepping back and giving her a mock bow. "Princess."

Zhera rolled her eyes. "Stop calling me that."

He tilted his head in mock consideration. "What should I call you, then?"

She hesitated.

"...Zhera."

Something flickered in his eyes — brief but unmistakable.

"Zhera," he repeated, his voice wrapping around the syllables like silk.

The sound of her name on his lips made something strange and fluttery erupt in her chest.

"Happy now?" she said, crossing her arms.

He smirked. "Ecstatic."

Before she could reply, he turned on his heel and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" she called after him.

He glanced back over his shoulder, one brow arched.

"To plan your next punishment," he said casually.

Zhera gaped at him.

"Punishment?! For what?!"

"For losing so badly," he said, grinning wickedly before disappearing out the door.

Zhera stared after him, sputtering indignantly.

She hated him.

She was doomed.

And somewhere, deep down, she suspected he knew it too.