Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAPHNE
M y heart crashes in my chest as I watch Monty land in a partial crouch on the floor below. The audience claps as he approaches the ring, and I internally beg him not to turn around and look at me.
For if he did, he’d see the furious tint of red in my cheeks.
I still can’t comprehend the fact that I just sucked candy off his fingers. In public. And that he licked my saliva off in turn. It was vulgar. Improper. Something that could get a woman cast out of gentle society, regardless of whether she’s human or fae.
But…this isn’t gentle society, and I’ve already accepted that I am not a lady of gentle breeding. A quick glance at those who occupy the tables around me shows not a single judging eye looking my way. Everyone is far more interested in the sport. Now that I’m truly assessing my surroundings, I notice far more scathing sights than what I just did. A human male stands on one of the tables, shaking his hips in a drunken dance, his pint of ale sloshing over the rim of his glass. An elegant human woman wears a silky pink evening gown…that’s entirely see-through. A couple kisses passionately against a wall, only half hidden by shadows—wait, is that Araminta? Before I can know for sure, another burst of applause drags my attention back to the center of the room.
Monty climbs upon the stage. His feet are bare, the cuffs of his trousers rolled up to his lower calves. He and his opponent stand at opposite corners of the ring, preparing for their fight. Monty swings out his arms, rolls his shoulders, shuffles his feet. My eyes are locked on his every move, every flex of his muscles. The cords in his neck, the bob of his throat, the curl of his lips…
I lift my gaze slightly to find his eyes are already on mine. He points at me, and damn it all, I can’t help but recall licking that very finger. Then his lips move, and though his voice doesn’t carry past my candy’s enchantment—and perhaps the crowd is too loud regardless—I can read the shape of each word. Root for me .
I don’t know exactly what rooting for someone entails, but if it means hooting and hollering like those around me, I’d rather eat raw broccoli. Which I despise. But I do want to encourage him. Show my support. So I raise my fist with a quiet and uncertain “Yay?”
He emits a laugh I can’t hear.
Then I notice another pair of eyes on me.
His opponent—Grave Danger, I think the announcer referred to him as—swivels around, eyes narrowed as he assesses me. His skin is coated entirely with amber scales, his green eyes bearing slitted pupils, his grin showing off pointed teeth. I’m startled by his attention at first, and I’m tempted to shrink from his sight. But a stronger instinct takes over. My inner hunter, emboldened by the liquor in my belly, curls my lips in a snarl as I stare down my nose at him like he’s nothing more than a field mouse. Holding his gaze, I tear off another bite of candy floss.
He turns back around and appears to shout something at Monty. Monty visibly stiffens, expression darkening as he flexes his fingers. Balls them into fists.
The bell rings again, and the two fighters step out from their corners. Where the previous combatants immediately swung for each other, Monty and his opponent start slow, assessing as they circle each other. They exchange a few experimental blows that are dodged with ease. Even without knowing much about this sport, I can tell they’re merely testing each other. Sizing up the competition.
Finally, Monty lunges forward and swings for his opponent’s ribs. Grave Danger returns the punch, and the two practically fly at each other, punching, blocking, dodging, their moves so quick I can hardly follow them. The previous match was raw and brutal, but this one is more like a dance. Perhaps the two fighters are simply matched in skill and speed. Though the longer I watch, the more I come to understand they each possess their own style.
Grave Danger moves in sharp, sudden bursts, normally in straight punches or quick jabs to the face or neck. He strikes with ferocity and speed, his dodge as fast as his attack. That paired with the amber scales coating his skin tells me he must be some kind of serpentine fae.
Yet where Grave Danger punches faster and more frequently, Monty’s throws are harder, more decisive. I drink in the sight of my friend, the way his shoulder blades glide beneath his skin with every punch, the way his abdomen contracts. My heart stutters with every blow Grave Danger lands on him, but I feel something else entirely when Monty throws a punch. When his knuckles split after a vicious jab to his opponent’s jaw.
It’s the thrill.
The same one I felt when I saw my first human city. The first time I saw the marvels within an art gallery. Or when I stood outside this building, eager to discover what it contained. Or when I prowled the forest in my unseelie form, stalking unwitting rodents and small birds.
I grip the railing and lean partially over it, no longer caring about the ledge or the dangers of falling in my seelie form. I’m too drawn in to what I’m watching to worry about that. All I want is the closest look I can manage.
Because this violence…
It’s beautiful.
A work of art. A canvas awash with the muted hues of the crowd, flecked with crimson blood, highlighted with golden illumination from the sprites that glow overhead. At the center of this masterpiece is Monty. He’s amazing. The way he moves. The way he strikes. The sweat that coats his skin. The blood on his knuckles.
His hands are more than handlike.
They are godly, fierce, and everything inside me burns to draw them.
The bell sounds, and the fighters break away, darting back to their respective corners. My stomach drops with disappointment until I realize they’re only taking a break. Still, I could hiss in my impatience, but at least I can take this time to study Monty’s form without Grave Danger obscuring my view. His chest heaves as he downs a glass of clear liquid. My lips part as I watch his throat bob with every swallow. Rivulets escape the corners of his lips, mingling with the sweat that paints his jaw, his neck, his impressive pectorals. Monty hands the empty glass to someone beside the stage, then rolls his neck and swings his arms. When he catches my gaze, he offers me a nod, but he’s less flippant than he was earlier. There’s a serious look on his face, a hardness in the line of his jaw.
The bell rings again, and the fighters return to the center of the ring, attacking each other at once. The break seems to have given them renewed vigor as they whip into a frenzy of punches, blocks, and dodges, neither gaining the upper hand nor backing down.
This goes on for three more rounds. By the fourth round, both fighters are visibly losing stamina. Their moves are slower, heavier, though they continue to be matched in damage, both in what they take and what they receive.
At one point, they exchange blows to the ribs that result in a clinch, both staggering to maintain their defense. Monty’s expression is intense yet weary around the edges while he throws another punch to his opponent’s ribs. Grave Danger’s teeth are bared, eyes narrowed, a snake cornered, yet he keeps Monty locked in the clinch.
The fae male’s gaze flicks up, flashing toward me for the briefest moment. Then his lipless mouth pulls wide and he hisses words I can’t hear. Grave Danger releases the clinch and darts back, but Monty roots himself in place, gaze murderous. I don’t know what the male said to him?—
The next thing I know, Monty lunges forward, fingers wrapped around Grave Danger’s throat. The fae does nothing to fight Monty off, even as his fingers wrap tighter.
Then the referee charges into the ring, shoving Monty back. Monty releases his opponent at once, just as the Master of Ceremonies steps onto the stage to shout, “Disqualified!”
Monty whirls around, hands on his hips as his lips form the word fuck . His disappointment is palpable enough to feel to my core. It isn’t hard to guess choking isn’t allowed. Monty would have known that. So what did Grave Danger say to upset him?
Monty’s gaze lifts to mine, and he gives me an apologetic half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Behind him, the referee raises Grave Danger’s hand to show him the victor, but in a flash of motion, the fae shrugs out of the kangaroo fae’s grasp and takes a step toward Monty. Then, pivoting back on one leg, he lifts his knee…
My eyes go wide, my heart leaping into my throat. I shout Monty’s name in warning. He shifts to the side?—
Just as Grave Danger extends his leg in a sharp upward kick that strikes Monty on the jaw.
He lands hard on his back.