Free Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas Page B

What­ever self-­control he’d had on their trek to the fortress was hanging by a thread. Good.
    â€œPlaying warrior in the woods ­doesn’t seem like the greatest indicator of talent.”
    â€œI fought on killing fi elds long before you, your parents, or your grand-­uncle ­were even born.”
    She bristled—­exactly like he wanted. “Who’s to fi ght ­here except birds and beasts?”
    Silence. Th en—“ Th e world is a far bigger and more dangerous place than you can imagine, girl. Consider yourself blessed to receive any training—­to have the chance to prove yourself.”
    â€œI’ve seen plenty of this big and dangerous world, princeling.”
    A so ft , harsh laugh. “Just wait, Aelin .”
    Another jab. And she let herself fall for it. “Don’t call me that.”
    â€œIt’s your name. I’m not going to call you anything di ff erent.”
    She stepped in his path, getting right near those too-­sharp canines. “No one ­here can know who I am. Do you understand?”
    His green eyes gleamed, animal-­bright in the dark. “My aunt has given me a harder task than she realizes, I think.” My aunt. Not our aunt.
    And then she said one of the foulest things she’d ever uttered in her life, bathing in the pure hate of it. “Fae like you make me understand the King of Adarlan’s actions a bit more, I think.”
    Faster than she could sense, faster than anything had a right to be, he punched her.
    She shi ft ed enough to keep her nose from shattering but took the blow on her mouth. She hit the wall, whacked her head, and tasted blood. Good .
    He struck again with that immortal speed—­or would have. But with equally unnerving swi ft ness, he halted his second blow before it fractured her jaw and snarled in her face, low and vicious.
    Her breathing turned ragged as she purred, “Do it.”
    He looked more interested in ripping out her throat than in talking, but he held the line he’d drawn. “Why should I give you what you want?”
    â€œYou’re just as useless as the rest of your brethren.”
    He let out a so ft , lethal laugh that raked claws down her temper. “If you’re that desperate to eat stone, go ahead: I’ll let you try to land the next punch.”
    She knew better than to listen. But there was such a roar in her blood that she could no longer see right, think right, breathe right. So she damned the consequences to hell as she swung.
    Celaena hit nothing but air—­air, and then his foot hooked behind hers in an e ffi cient maneuver that sent her careening into the wall once more. Impossible—­he’d tripped her as if she was nothing more than a trembling novice.
    He was now a few feet away, arms crossed. She spat blood and swore. He smirked. It was enough to send her hurtling for him again, to tackle or pummel or strangle him, she didn’t know.
    She caught his feint le ft , but when she dove right, he moved so swi ft ly that despite her lifetime of training, she crashed into a darkened brazier behind him. Th e clatter echoed through the too-­quiet hall as she landed face-­ fi rst on the stone fl oor, her teeth singing.
    â€œLike I said,” Rowan sneered down at her, “you have a lot to learn. About everything.”
    Her lip already aching and swollen, she told him exactly what he could go do to himself.
    He sauntered down the hall. “Next time you say anything like that,” he said without looking over his shoulder, “I’ll have you chopping wood for a month.”
    Fuming, hatred and shame already burning her face, Celaena got to her feet. He dumped her in a very small, very cold room that looked like little more than a prison cell, letting her take all of two steps inside before he said, “Give me your weapons.”
    â€œWhy? And no.” Like hell she’d give him her daggers.
    In