House Rules - Chloe Neill Page 0,38

He met my eyes, and I offered a supportive wink.

Go get him, tiger, I silently told him.

Shouldn’t you be working? he asked.

Yes, I said frankly. But the world outside these walls is depressing, and I need the distraction. You may begin impressing me now.

He smiled wickedly, his expression public, but the reasons—and the conversation between us—for our ears only.

Michael stepped into the room to the good-natured clapping of the vampires in the balcony. He’d opted for white martial arts gear, the same styling as Ethan’s. But the color contrast was notable. They were both tall and fit, but their coloring and mannerisms were noticeably different. Michael had dark hair and a casual, athletic bounce to his step. Ethan, golden haired and green eyed, made clear that every move was precise and calculated.

Michael pressed his hands together and bent forward at the edge of the mat, bowing toward Ethan. Ethan did the same, his expression unreadable, and they met in the middle.

The battle started almost instantaneously.

Michael jumped into a high spinning kick that sent Ethan to the floor, and he rolled away before Michael could attempt contact again.

“Not bad,” Ethan said.

“I’m only worth your House’s money if I can teach you a trick or two,” Michael said, executing a side kick that Ethan neatly blocked, then moving forward with a jab-slash-punch combination. Ethan dodged him, flipping backward out of the way—and at least ten feet into the air—before Michael could hit him again.

“Clearly four hundred years of practice has its benefits,” Michael said, grunting as he used his right forearm to block a crescent kick that Ethan landed perfectly, the sound of bone on bone ringing across the room.

We winced sympathetically. That couldn’t have felt good for either of them.

They kept at it, the advantage switching back and forth as they worked through what seemed like every weapon in their arsenals: strikes, punches, kicks, and flips.

Michael was good. His form was strong and he made quick decisions, although his responses weren’t as creative as Ethan’s. Maybe Ethan was helped by the years of practice, of experiencing the “special” relationship with gravity that helped vampires stay airborne.

But what Michael lacked in creativity, he made up for in pure strength. He was brawnier than Ethan, lean, but broader in the shoulders compared to Ethan’s lithe frame.

They separated and paused for a moment, both breathing heavily, each watching the other carefully. Assessing and calculating their skills.

After a moment, Michael broke the silence. “If you want to improve, you’ve got to be willing to get dirty.”

“That’s what she said,” Luc whispered beside us, Lindsey coughing to hide an obvious snort.

“Dirty?” Ethan asked. Hands on his hips, a single eyebrow arched in aristocratic doubt, he gazed back at Michael.

“Dirty,” Michael repeated. “You fight like a prince. Honorably. And that’s all well and good in the sparring room, but if you’re fighting for real, there’s a good chance they don’t give a rat’s ass if you’re following vampiric etiquette. They won’t be checking the Canon later. You have to be willing to fight back the way they’re fighting you. Otherwise you risk losing a fight—being killed or injured—or not disabling a foe when you have a chance. And that puts the burden on someone else.”

For a moment, the training room was silent as we all watched Ethan, waiting for his reaction to the advice. Ethan wasn’t frequently corrected, especially when it came to fighting. But he held out a hand toward Michael.

“I appreciate your candor. As often as we train in the traditional methods, it’s easy to forget the purpose of the learning—protecting ourselves and those we love.”

“Precisely,” Michael said, nodding as they shook hands.

They separated just as Malik walked through the door and headed for Ethan, not bothering to wait for an invite.

“Good lord,” Lindsey muttered. “And just when I was enjoying myself. What is it now? Robots? Monsters? Is McKetrick outside with a torch, ready to light the House on fire?”

“Possibly worse,” Luc said, checking his phone, then raising his gaze to me. “Kelley just messaged me. Lacey Sheridan is nearly here.”

The vampires in the balcony around me went silent, all eyes on me as if waiting for my reaction, their questions obvious: Will she throw a tantrum? Scream and cry? Pout and storm out of the room?

My cheeks burned at the apparently universal belief that I was an insecure basket case. “I already knew she was coming.”

“Thank sweet Christ,” Luc said with much drama and obvious relief. “I did not want to drop that