Page 63 of Heimlock

Kyrielle hesitates for a second, brushing the sand off her sweaty body, then stalks after me. Passing through those wanting to congratulate us, I march to the door leading into the hallway. Glaring at the infuriating firecracker still smirking, I open the door and motion for her to step in.

Coach catches my eye before I follow; his head tilts in curiosity. I don’t care.

Walking toward the hallway, I lock the door so no one can follow.

“Well, that was fun—”

Before she can get another sassy, enraging word out, I wrap a hand around her throat, lift her small body, and slam her against the wall, cushioning her head with my other hand. She inhales sharply as I invade her space, shoving my body against hers to pin it in place.

Kyrielle lifts her chin, unafraid. “Come on,” she cajoles. “You liked it.”

My lip twitches, desperate to sink my fangs into the juncture ‌where her neck and shoulder meet. The sound of her gasps would be so sweet.

“I could’ve killed you.” Every word comes out in a low, threatening growl. Why doesn’t she get it?

Again, this Fire Sprite only smirks. “We almost killed each other.”

Blisters in my mouth have barely finished healing from what she shoved down my throat. She’s not wrong. “You owe me a night of submission.”

“You can start now, if you want?” A groan almost escapes my lips when she grinds her hips into mine. Like she’s turned on. I know some fighters get aroused after a fight — she’s clearly one of them. The hardness of my dick confirms I am too, but she won’t be seeing that.

Not tonight.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” This time, it sounds like I’m pleading for an actual answer. I told her to forget everything. This is the very exact opposite of that. What remains of my heart can’t handle this. It just can’t.

“I want answers,” she says simply. “Also, I’m always aroused after a battle.”

I really need to ignore that last part. My hand tightens around her throat, but it’s a ghost of what I did to her in the arena.

“Why can’t you respect that I don’t want to tell you. Or anyone?”

“Because I know what it’s like to have your insides rot from the silence.”

Her words make my fury waver. That can’t happen. My secrets are impenetrable armor. “You don’t know anything about my insides. You’re projecting whatever it is you think you know.”

“I know you almost killed him when you were eighteen.”

The fight goes out of me like a candle flame blown out. In a low voice, I ask, “How?”

“A news report.”

Fuck. My teeth grind in frustration. The mere possibility of being seen, truly seen, makes me want to vomit. “Why did you go snooping? Why can’t you just … leave me alone, Kyrielle?”

“Because I didn’t push when it mattered most,” she whispers. “Orliana was beaten for over ten years, and I had no idea.”

Tears fill her eyes. My hand drops from her throat, easing her to the ground, but her head stays cradled in my palm. Her voice is barely audible as she says, “I want to help, Trinte.”

When a tear slides down her dusty cheek, I wipe it away with a thumb. Holding her gaze, I lick at the salty teardrop and hum with satisfaction. It tastes like the agony that’s enmeshed with my entire self.

Her expression heats. It’s subtle, but her hips jerk toward me. It’s difficult to not return the motion. Repeatedly. Naked.

In one last useless attempt at making her stop, I say, “Kyrielle, you don’t know what you’re fucking with.”

“I know,” she says, voice raspy. “That’s why I want to ask five questions — to find out.”

I search her face for a clue to any dishonesty or ulterior motive. No one cares this much about people they barely know.

Except Kyrielle does. She helps strangers all the time. It’s one of the many things I admire most about her. Just not when it’s homed in on me.