Laurent’s whole body thrashed against him then, trying to wrench from his hold, a moment of violent animal struggle that pushed their hot, sweat-dampened bodies together. Damen rode it out—shoved them both in against the wall—tightly enough to prohibit movement, but Laurent punched him in the throat with his free arm, hard enough that he choked and shifted, and then, with all the hard violence in him, Laurent drove his knee in.
Blackness exploded across his vision, but fighter’s instinct pushed through it. He dragged Laurent away from the wall and flung him to the ground, where Laurent hit, body impacting hard on the sawdust. It knocked the wind out of Laurent for a moment, but he was already pushing himself dazedly up, his eyes venomous on Damen’s. Laurent was going for the knife again, his fingers closing around it, too late.
‘That’s enough,’ said Damen, driving his knee hard into Laurent’s stomach, then throwing him onto his back and following him down. He had Laurent’s wrist in his grip, and he slammed it back against the sawdust, so that Laurent released the knife. His body was an arc over Laurent’s, pinning Laurent with his weight, with his hands on Laurent’s wrists, Laurent taut beneath him. He could feel the hot rise and fall of Laurent’s chest. He tightened his grip.
Finding himself with no way out from under Damen’s body, Laurent made a last, desperate sound, and only then finally went still, panting, his eyes furious with bitterness and frustration.
They were both panting. Damen could feel the resistance in Laurent’s body.
‘Say it,’ said Damen.
‘I yield.’ It was gritted out. Laurent’s head turned away to one side.
‘I want you to know,’ he said, the words thick and heavy as they pushed out of him, ‘that I could have done this any time when I was a slave.’
Laurent said, ‘Get off me.’
He thrust himself away. Laurent was the first to lever himself off the floor. He stood with his hand on the post for support. Flecks of sawdust were clinging to his back.
‘You want me to say it? That I could never have beaten you?’ Laurent’s voice twisted up. ‘I could never have beaten you.’
‘No, you couldn’t have. You’re not good enough. You would have come for revenge, and I would have killed you. That’s how it would have been between us. Is that what you would have wanted?’
‘Yes,’ said Laurent. ‘He was everything I had.’
The words hung between them.
‘I know,’ said Laurent, ‘that I was never good enough.’
Damen said, ‘Neither was your brother.’
‘You’re wrong. He was—’
‘What?’
‘Better than I am. He would have—’
Laurent cut himself off. He pressed his eyes closed, with a breath of something like laughter. ‘Stopped you.’ He said it as though he could hear the ludicrousness of it.
Damen picked up the discarded knife, and when Laurent’s eyes opened, he put it in Laurent’s hand. Braced it. Drew it to his own abdomen, so that they stood in a familiar posture. Laurent’s back was to the post.
‘Stop me,’ said Damen.
He could see it in Laurent’s expression, as he fought an internal battle with his desire to use the knife.
He said, ‘I know what that feels like.’
‘You’re unarmed,’ said Laurent.
So are you. He didn’t say it. It didn’t make any sense. He felt the moment changing. His grip on Laurent’s wrist was changing. The knife thudded to the sawdust.
He forced himself to step back before it happened. He was staring at Laurent from two paces away, his breathing roughened, and not from exertion.
Around them, the training arena was strewn with the disorder of their fight: benches overturned, armour pieces scattered across the floor, a banner half torn from the wall.
Damen said, ‘I wish—’
But he couldn’t speak the past away, and Laurent wouldn’t thank him if he did. He took up his sword and left the hall.