Chapter Eight: Underestimated.
Arabella POV
"I was caught off guard, and I underestimated you," he says, standing up.
I look at him, amused.
Typical.
"Fine," I say with a shrug, stepping back and resetting my stance.
Contrary to popular prejudice, I've always, for as long as I can remember, been the target of harm. Assassinations. Men with no concept of 'no.' People who thought a girl like me was an easy kill.
I had to learn how to protect myself.
And since I was born with barely a spark of magical power—just a flicker of light that would shame a glowworm—I had to make do. Transformation magic. Laughably simple. Underrated. Mostly ignored.It's something even toddlers learn. But it's mine.
I took that scrap of talent and sharpened it into a weapon. It became my sword, my armor, my shield.
Since I can't set people on fire or summon water to drown them, I had to perfect the tiny, unimpressive ability I do have.
Ash comes at me again, this time faster—blurring with that cocky, supernatural speed vampires love so much. A blur of black, red eyes locked on me like I'm prey.
I'm not prey.
I twist sideways, the punch grazing past my cheek, close enough to ruffle my hair. I spin my staff, keeping him at bay, jabbing at his legs and chest. He dodges with fluid grace, lips curling into something smug.
He grabs the staff mid-spin, halting my movement. Our eyes meet.
He's amused.
Well, so am I.
I smirk.
With a flick of my fingers, the staff shifts form, splintering into a rope of steel. It snakes around his wrist like a whip. He tugs instinctively—wrong move.
I yank him forward.
Right into my fist.
So I follow it up with a kick.
My foot slams into his ribs, and ow—ouch. Okay, that hurt me. Is he made of steel?
But it hurt him more. He staggers back, winded.
I don't let him recover.
I press forward. The rope coils back into a baton, then into a pole. I spin it and use it to vault over him, landing lightly behind his back. He spins to face me.
Too slow.
I transform the baton into a gleaming metal bat and sweep it low. It slams into his ribs.
He crashes to the ground with a loud thud.
I don't wait. I strut over.
He's groaning, one hand clutching his side, his lips curled in a mix of pain and disbelief. His red eyes narrow as I tower above him, shadows dancing across his pale face.
He tries to rise, but I'm already transforming the bat. It's not a bat anymore.
It's a wooden stake.
I step onto his chest and press down, pinning him to the mat. He grits his teeth and tries to rise.
I increase the weight on my heel. Not gentle. Firmly. I have to reinforce the message.
"Bam," I say sweetly.
"You're dead."
The wooden stake hovers a breath away from his heart.
He stares up at me.
He goes still.
I grin down at him.
His dark wavy hair is plastered to his forehead, a little damp from the exertion, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling beneath me. His lips are slightly parted. His eyes—damn those red vampire eyes—track mine.
He's attractive. I can't lie. Which is why this sight is bringing inappropriate thoughts to my mind.
But I cut that thought short and step back.
The wooden stake morphs back into my delicate pink hairpiece. I twist my hair up into a ponytail and slide
it in.
"Do I pass now?" I ask sweetly.
He doesn't answer right away.
I smirk.
Exactly.