from my face to my feet.
Then they settled on the scar along my forearm.
Something changed in his expression.
Blake clapped his gloves together.
“Last chance to walk away.”
I met his gaze.
“Same offer.”
His jaw tightened.
Then he moved.
The first punch came fast.
It was a straight right, aimed directly at my chin.
Blake drove his shoulder into the movement, expecting me to panic, retreat, or duck wildly out of the way.
Instead, I shifted my head barely two inches.
His fist passed beside my cheek.
I felt the movement of air as it missed.
Blake had committed too much weight to the punch.
Before he could recover, I stepped slightly to the side.
He stumbled forward and barely caught himself before falling.
Several spectators gasped.
Blake spun toward me.
“Lucky.”
I didn’t respond.
He advanced again.
A jab.
A right cross.
A left hook.
I avoided each strike with small, controlled movements.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that would impress someone who measured fighting ability by how aggressively a person moved.
I simply shifted enough to remain
