The sound of metal clashing filled the underground training room, the weight of your daggers meeting Scaramouche’s new weapon—a sleek, curved sword—echoing in the space. You both moved in tandem, a violent yet calculated dance, eyes locked in a tension that neither of you wanted to admit.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Scaramouche’s taunting voice grated on your nerves as you parried another blow, feeling the strain in your shoulder but refusing to let him see the fatigue. He was good—too good, if you were honest. His calculated strikes and fluid movements had you on edge, pushing you to the limit with every second that passed.

Your breath came out in short pants as you feigned left, ducking low to sweep his legs. He countered effortlessly, sidestepping the attack with an arrogant smirk, eyes glinting with something dark and unreadable. You gritted your teeth and pressed forward, determined not to lose.

But in a heartbeat, Scaramouche disarmed you. The next thing you knew, you were on the ground, his knee pressing into your chest, the cold tip of his sword sinking into your shoulder, not deep enough to cause real damage but enough to make you wince. His face was mere inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“That’s checkmate, darling,” he purred, voice low and laced with satisfaction. His violet eyes bore into yours, pupils blown wide with adrenaline—and something else. Desire. The sexual tension that had always simmered between you flared, sharp and undeniable.

Your breath hitched as you felt the weight of his body against yours, the metal of his prosthetic hand pressing into the ground beside your head. His lips curled into a wicked smile, daring you to break the moment, to make a move.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. For once, Scaramouche had you pinned, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to change that.