"Against what?" she asks.
I gesture, and training constructs rise from the floor. Shadow given form and purpose, designed to test without killing. Usually.
She doesn't wait for permission. The first construct barely finishes forming before she's moving, blades singing through the air. Her style is one of brutal efficiency. There's no wasted movement and no flourishes, just a clear design in every strike to end things quickly.
She destroys three constructs in as many seconds.
I make the next wave harder. She adapts instantly, using the room's geometry to her advantage, forcing the constructs to come at her single file. She doesn't just fight, she controls the entire battlefield.
Seven constructs down. Ten. Fifteen.
The third wave comes from multiple dimensions. This should overwhelm her, force mistakes. Instead, she drops and rolls, coming up inside their guard, blades working in lethal harmony. She takes a hit, a construct's tendril catches her shoulder, but she doesn't slow. The pain just sharpens her focus.
Her emotions flood the bond: the heat of anger, the sharp scent of pride, and underneath, a confusing, magnetic pull toward me that she fights to ignore. Her body sings with the joy of competent violence, and underneath, that darker hunger pulses. Combat arousal, her body responding to danger with more than adrenaline.
Twenty constructs destroyed.
"Enough."
The remaining constructs dissolve. She stands in the center of the room, breathing hard but controlled, blood seeping through her shirt from the shoulder wound. The blades in her hands are steady.
"Satisfied?" she asks.
"Intrigued."
I move closer. She doesn't step back, though every instinct probably screams she should. This close, I can see the pulse in her throat, feel the heat radiating from her exertion.
"You fight like you're always outnumbered," I observe.
"I usually am."
"Was. Past tense. You're here now."
She shifts her weight, still ready to fight. "And here I'm definitely outnumbered."
I reach toward her shoulder wound. She tenses but doesn't pull away. My shadow wraps around the injury, numbing the pain. Not healing, that would require more intimate contact than she'd allow, but easing.
"Why?" she asks.
"I don't want you damaged."
"Because you need me functional."
"Because I find myself... protective of you."
The admission surprises us both. A phantom headache pricks at my temples, her confusion, followed by the bitter taste of suspicion.
"I'm not yours to protect."
"No?" I let my hand hover near her face, not touching but close enough she can feel the cold. "Then why does your body respond to my proximity? Why does your pulse quicken when I'm near?"
"Adrenaline. You're a threat."
"I'm many things. But right now, I'm not your threat."
"Right now?"
"Right now, you're hunting someone. I can taste it in your rage, focused, personal. This isn't a contract. It's revenge."
