After my encounter with Izgath the previous night, I’d done as he suggested the entire time and changed the form to be slightly slimmer and with a haircut close to Dromak’s, rather than bother with something complicated like Izgath’s. Shaking my head, I raised my fists. “After all the shit Izgath gave me about it, it had better.”

Dromak snorted, then swung for me without warning. My dodge was wider than necessary, but I at least remembered to duck and roll to the correct side. Popping back up, I threw the right-handed punch. Like Uzadaan, Dromak slipped it easily, with hardly any motion at all. On my retreat, his fist flew straight toward the left side of my face, so unexpected I didn’t move out of the way in time.

“Ow, fuck.” I rubbed my cheek. “I thought we weren’t supposed to make contact!”

“We’ve got to toughen you up, Kormánzó. You’re too soft compared to these other males,” Dromak teased. “Gotta know what it’s like to take a punch.”

If only he knew.

Rage burned inside me as memories of Vagach’s abuse surfaced, and it took all my willpower to remain silent and not unleash the fury in Dromak’s direction. These ignorant males had no idea what it was like to be a female in the Demon Realm, told to stay quiet and spread our legs.

My nails dug into my palms so hard I thought I might draw blood. The urge to spit words at him was becoming too great, so rather than succumbing to my desire, I spun on my heel and stomped away, letting the strike of my feet against the ground ease the growing tension in my body.

“Wait, Vagach, I was only joking!” Dromak called out, but I ignored him.

Izgath chastised Dromak, but I paid no attention to the words that passed between them. My gaze was fixed on the line of wagons in the distance and the lines of tents beyond them. Eyes followed me from the pairs of males facing off and practicing the sequence the Vezető had given them, but I didn’t care who witnessed my retreat.

Blowing my identity to anyone else was a death sentence, and right then, I was so close to losing it that it was better I walk away and cool off, no matter what that might make others think of me. Passing the horses, loosely tethered so they could graze freely, I turned between two wagons, hoping that the position would hide me from view. I quickened my pace and entered the lines of tents. Mine was toward the front, as always, and thankfully, other than the seasoned recruits on cooking duty, no one was around.

I ducked inside and dropped my magic, immediately swimming in my clothing. A full body tremble had me sinking to the ground. I braced my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands and heaved down breaths to stave off the memories.

It was no use.

They flooded my mind unencumbered, making it hard to think, hard to see anything surrounding me. Every muscle in my body grew taught as the large wooden poles became the legs of the table in our kitchen where I scrambled for purchase to put distance between Vagach and me. The canvas wrapping over them were the sheets I tried to bury myself in to forget each day’s events. Flash after flash of traumatic moments flooded my veins with adrenaline, yet I couldn’t move, couldn’t escape that phantom pain.

My heart thundered against my ribs; I was trapped again with no way out. Digging my fingers into my thighs, I forced myself to feel the here and now, to bring myself back before anyone discovered me losing my shit. The only option was to put it down, down, down in a box so thick and so deep that it alone could contain the rage.

How I hated that I had to wear my abuser’s form every day. Had to pretend to be someone so cruel every day, though I couldn’t say I was doing a fine job at displaying his true personality. Our journey to Uzhhorod couldn’t end fast enough, simply so I could be me again. At least Jaku and I agreed on that, though for entirely different reasons.

“Assyria.” Izgath’s low voice filtered through the tent and my thoughts.

I froze, my breath catching somewhere between inhale and exhale.

“It’s me. I’m alone. I wouldn’t risk anyone else finding out.” He spoke again, his voice a little more forceful this time.

Slowly, I lifted my head from my hands, finding his shadow dancing around the tied slit in the front of the tent.

Then, a sigh fluttered the fabric. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. You left pretty quickly back there.”

I crept forward, silently closing the distance between us.

Izgath cleared his throat, and I watched his shadow shift from foot to foot. “Listen, Dromak is an ass. He shouldn’t have hit you when you weren’t prepared for it. The other recruits–”

He silenced himself as I unfastened the ties and lifted the flap in silent permission to enter. Head swiveling from side to side, he ducked into the tent, finding me drowning in a despair he didn’t understand.

I scooted back and wrapped my arms around my legs, using the loose sleeves of the tunic to dry my eyes. Izgath crouched, then settled cross-legged on the ground, his head cocked slightly to the side as he studied me. “Something is wrong.”

I snorted and bunched up the fabric around my wrists to wipe my nose. “Clearly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, but then something like understanding flashed across his eyes. “This is because Dromak said you needed to know what it was like to take a punch.”

Weakly, I nodded, closing my eyes and tipping my head back as I fought against another wave of brutal memory. Canvas creaked, drawing my eyes open and head forward again. Izgath had shifted closer to me and was reaching out a tentative hand. My attention landed heavily on his outstretched arm, bare, tanned, and marked with tiny scars. Demons healed quickly and therefore didn’t easily scar, unless the blades were infused with silver. The number of slices on that singular limb told me he’d been in more fights than I’d ever want to count. And lived to tell the tales of them all.

Our gazes collided as a mutual understanding stretched between us.

Me, the helpless female whose husband abused her. Izgath, the fearless warrior who looked at me with so much concern it made my chest ache. No one had shown me that sympathy in Stryi. Even my parents hadn’t offered me this level of support. This one look from Izgath held everything I’d wanted to see reflected back at me for the years Vagach had abused me.

Like he was approaching a flighty deer, Izgath closed the distance between us and flattened his palm on my shoulder. My skin burned beneath the tunic where he touched me, but I did not flinch. “You didn’t deserve that, Assyria. Nor did you deserve Dromak’s teasing tonight. I’ll speak with him and tell him to take it easy on you when it comes to fighting.”

It was my turn to study him. A few strands of my hair had come loose from their plaits, and they caressed my cheek as I tilted my head to the side. My attention swept up his scarred arm, across his broad chest, and finally up to his face and over the messy knot of hair piled on his head, revealing the smooth sides. Izgath was a true warrior, with the body to prove it. The way he moved was graceful, sensual, lethal and he feared no one.

Maybe what I needed was to embrace what he, Dromak, and Uzadaan were offering me rather than flee it. I’d already chastised myself endlessly for failing to learn my power before it was absolutely necessary. And now, they were offering me an opportunity to learn to fight so that I’d be prepared for the battle ahead. Whether or not I ever saw an Angel in combat, those skills would be useful in a world where females were second to males and expected to be subservient in every way.

Receiving blows had not prepared me in the slightest for how to defend against them. Learning how to fight would ensure that no male would ever lay a hand on me in violence again—at least not without a swift, decisive action in return.