Chapter 126: Fencing Class

"So, you think I'm going to go easy on you now that you're sleeping with the boss?"

That was the last straw.

Ever since the lesson had begun, he had done nothing but provoke her. Him and his blade. Throwing out one outrageous remark after another.

But this...

This was too much.

He had only been teaching her fencing for a few days, and yet she had genuinely been doing her best to keep herself under control.

Ever since Fenrir had elevated her to the rank of Queen of the Players, every single movement demanded constant concentration. The slightest miscalculation could end in disaster. A simple parry could shatter someone's wrist. A strike delivered with just a little too much conviction could send a sparring partner flying clear across the salle.

So she restrained every movement.

She slowed her blows at the last possible instant, accepted losing exchanges rather than hurting him, chose to take a cut or a pommel strike instead of answering with the full strength her body now begged to unleash. It bruised her pride at times, but she had learned to live with it. No one had asked to wake up infinitely stronger overnight. It was her responsibility to adapt—not everyone else's.

The problem was...

Erik had apparently decided today was not his day.

He had arrived in a foul mood.

Even worse than usual.

Which, coming from him, was almost an achievement.

His closed-off expression looked as though it had been carved from marble. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles stood out beneath his skin, and his magnificent winter-blue eyes—already sparing with emotion under normal circumstances—had taken on that cold, metallic edge that usually heralded a training session from which everyone walked away with fresh bruises.

By everyone, that mostly meant her.

She hadn't dared ask him what was wrong.

Not yet.

After all, survival instinct was one of her greatest qualities.

Erik, however, offered no explanation.

He simply attacked.

Without restraint.

Without anything resembling a proper warm-up.

Every strike hissed through the air with unusual violence, forcing Blanche to retreat again and again, dodge at the last instant, or block attacks that sent vibrations shooting from her hands all the way to her shoulders.

More than once, she felt the edge of his blade bite into her skin.

Superficial cuts.

Nothing serious.

But there were enough of them to make one thing perfectly clear:

Her opponent had no intention whatsoever of showing her the slightest mercy today.

She gritted her teeth.

Kept holding back.

Again.

And again.

Until frustration slowly began replacing patience.

She endured.

Retreated.

Breathed.

Repeated to herself that he probably had an excellent reason for being this unbearable.

Then Erik struck her again.

Harder than he should have.

Something snapped.

Not in her body.

In her patience.

Her eyes slowly rose to meet his.

Very slowly.

And, for the first time since the duel had begun, Blanche stopped wondering how to avoid hurting him.

Instead, she started wondering how to make him understand that he had just pushed the wrong person a little too far.

And without even realizing it, once the thought had crossed her mind...

The inevitable happened.

Blanche sent Erik hurtling through the air.

They both stared in surprise.

He climbed back to his feet, narrowing his eyes warily.

As though he already knew.

"What changed?" he asked, tilting his head as he examined her from head to toe.

At least his renewed interest tempered his foul mood slightly...

Or maybe not, she thought, as he charged straight at her, wreathed in an unmistakably threatening aura.

Without even trying, Blanche saw Erik's attack coming and countered it effortlessly.

The fear she had once felt toward him had diminished dramatically.

"Start talking," her martial arts instructor demanded.

"Or what?"

Her answer snapped back, sharp as a whip.

This man unsettled her.

She couldn't figure him out.

His aura was profoundly dark, yet he wasn't cruel for the sheer pleasure of it.

Not needlessly.

On the other hand, she was absolutely certain of one thing:

If he ever decided to kill her...

He would.

And no one would be able to stop him.

As if to prove her right, his face stretched into a particularly unsettling smile.

To think he had a voice sinful enough to make anyone lose themselves...

"Trust me," he murmured. "You don't want to find out."

Blanche knew he was right.

But thanks to Nightingale, she could feed him a believable lie.

She just needed one convincing enough.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and nodded.

An idea came to her.

"Only if you keep it to yourself."

"Yep. Spill."

Erik crouched down in front of her, invading her personal space.

Even at her level, he radiated that sense of perfectly controlled power that marked true masters of the blade. His lean, wiry build wasn't especially impressive at first glance; it was the physique of a man forged by years of real combat, where every muscle had been earned through discipline rather than vanity. Thin white scars crisscrossed his forearms, silent testimony to a lifetime spent wielding weapons, while his broad shoulders remained effortlessly straight with an almost military posture.

His simple training uniform hugged a body that was as flexible as it was deadly. One immediately understood that he possessed no unnecessary movements whatsoever. Every step embodied efficiency, as though his entire body had been taught to kill before it had ever learned how to live.

His face, with its strong, harmonious features, possessed a stern, almost intimidating beauty. A perfectly sculpted jawline. A straight nose. High cheekbones. And those pale, icy eyes that seemed to analyze everything around them without ever missing a detail. Even his impeccably kept hair, untouched despite the training session, reinforced the impression of absolute discipline.

He was ridiculously handsome.

The kind of man who could effortlessly grace the cover of a magazine devoted to special forces or combat sports.

The kind who naturally drew every eye without ever trying to.

At least...

Until you saw the ugliness of his soul.