Meredith.
Draven didn't counter or even bother to strike. He didn't even sweat. He just stood there like a damn statue, deflecting every blow without so much as blinking.
I swung again, harder this time—a right hook he caught midair without even looking.
His hand wrapped around my wrist, firm but not cruel, his head tilting just slightly as if to say, 'That's all you've got?'
I yanked my hand back and stepped away, frustration boiling in my veins. "This is boring," I snapped, wiping a bead of sweat from my temple.
His lips quirked. "Is it?"
"Yes." I glared at him. "You promised a duel, not… whatever this is. You are just standing there, blocking me like a damn training dummy."
Draven's smirk didn't fade. If anything, it deepened.
"This is supposed to be a duel," I pressed, taking a step closer. "That means treating me like an equal, not humoring me."
The silence that followed was taut, charged. Then, finally, he tilted his head. "Are you certain that is what you want?"
