The Assassin's Blade by Sarah J. Maas

“Celaena, wait!” Sam called, panting as he walked after her.

She couldn’t wait. She’d just started walking, and walking, and walking, and now, as she reached the empty beach far from the lights of Skull’s Bay, she wouldn’t stop walking until she reached the water.

Not too far down the curve in the bay, the watchtower stood guard, Ship-Breaker hanging across the water for the duration of the night. The moon illuminated the powder-fine sand and turned the calm sea into a silver mirror.

She removed her mask and dropped it behind her, then ripped off her cloak, boots, and tunic. The damp breeze kissed her bare skin, fluttering her delicate white undershirt.

“Celaena!”

Bath-warm waves flooded past her, and she kicked up a spray of water as she kept walking. Before she could get deeper than her calves, Sam grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing?” he demanded. She yanked on her arm, but he held firm.

In a single, swift movement, she twirled, swinging her other arm. But he knew the move—because he’d practiced it right alongside her for years—and he caught her other hand. “Stop,” he said, but she swept her foot. She caught him behind the knee, sending him tumbling down. Sam didn’t release her, and water and sand sprayed as they hit the ground.

Celaena landed on top of him, but Sam didn’t pause for a moment. Before she could give him a sharp elbow to the face, he flipped her. The air whooshed out of her lungs. Sam lunged for her, and she had the sense to bring her feet up just as he leapt. She kicked him square in the stomach. He cursed as he dropped to his knees. The surf broke around him, a shower of silver.

She sprang into a crouch, the sand hissing beneath her feet as she made to tackle him.

But Sam had been waiting, and he twisted away, catching her by the shoulders and throwing her to the ground.

She knew she’d been caught before he even finished slamming her into the sand. He pinned her wrists, his knees digging into her thighs to keep her from getting her legs under her again.

“Enough!” His fingers dug painfully into her wrists. A rogue wave reached them, soaking her.

She thrashed, her fingers curling, straining to draw blood, but they couldn’t reach his hands. The sand shifted enough that she could scarcely get a steady surface to support herself, to flip him. But Sam knew her—he knew her movements, knew what tricks she liked to pull.

“Stop,” he said, his breathing ragged. “Please.”

In the moonlight, his handsome face was strained. “Please,” he repeated hoarsely.

The sorrow—the defeat—in his voice made her pause. A wisp of cloud passed over the moon, illuminating the strong panes of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips—the kind of rare beauty that had made his mother so successful. Far above his head, stars flickered faintly, nearly invisible in the glow of the moon.

“I’m not going to let go until you promise to stop attacking me,” Sam said. His face was inches away, and she felt the breath of every one of his words on her mouth.

She took an uneven breath, then another. She had no reason to attack Sam. Not when he’d kept her from gutting that pirate in the warehouse. Not when he’d gotten so riled about the slave children. Her legs trembled with pain.

“I promise,” she mumbled.

“Swear it.”

“I swear on my life.”

He watched her for a second longer, then slowly eased off her. She waited until he was standing, then got to her feet. Both of them were soaked and crusted with sand, and she was fairly certain her hair had come half out of her braid and she looked like a raging lunatic.

“So,” he said, taking off his boots and tossing them onto the sand behind them. “Are you going to explain yourself?” He rolled his pants up to the knees and took a few steps into the surf.

Celaena began pacing, waves splattering at her feet. “I just …,” she began, but waved an arm, shaking her head fiercely.

“You what?” His words were almost drowned out by the crashing waves.

She whirled to face him. “How can you bear to look at those people and not do anything?”

“The slaves?”

She resumed her pacing. “It makes me sick. It makes me … makes me so mad I think I might …” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“Might what?” Splashing steps sounded, and she looked over her shoulder to find him approaching. He crossed his arms, bracing for a fight. “Might do something as foolish as attacking Rolfe’s men in their own warehouse?”

It was now or never. She hadn’t wanted to involve him, but … now that her plans had changed, she needed his help.

“I might do something as foolish as freeing the slaves,” she said.

Sam went so still that he might have been turned into stone. “I knew you were thinking up something—but freeing them …”

“I’m going to do it with or without you.” She’d only intended to ruin the deal, but from the moment she’d walked into that warehouse tonight, she’d known she couldn’t leave the slaves there.

“Rolfe will kill you,” Sam said. “Or Arobynn will, if Rolfe doesn’t first.”

“I have to try,” she said.

“Why?” Sam stepped close enough that she needed to tilt her head back to see his face. “We’re assassins. We kill people. We destroy lives every day.”