CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE TRUE QUEEN OF WIDOW'S HALL
I’m winded within seconds. It’s embarrassing, but in my defense the length of the arena looks smaller from the end than it feels when actually running it.
My path to Kaidren is curved. I sprint around the wall of soldiers slamming into each other and cling to the perimeter, closer to the stands of onlookers.
I ignore them, forcing everything into the background except for my opponent on the other side of the wide, snowy field.
From the corner of my eye, I see another one of Kaidren’s soldiers drop to the ground. It’s a good sign, but I don’t look to see if he gets back up, or react as the crowd roars in response. I tune it out and run faster.
Kaidren stands behind the wall of soldiers, as Luc does, watching it all unfold. He’s so rapt by the violence, he doesn’t notice my approach. Not until I’m close enough that my footsteps capture his attention.
His head snaps in my direction.
I’m wearing a mask, and he isn’t. I read his fear in the whites of his eyes and scrunch of his brow. He’s weaponless, with no formal training, and he thinks I’m an experienced soldier.
I scan his imposing figure, assessing for his weakest points.
Eyes, knees, groin, feet, sides. I chant Flynn’s advice to myself.
Kaidren is tall, and he gave his sword to a disarmed soldier.
My most effective tool—magic—has already been drained from the tshira I carry with me, so my only weapon is the small knife in my pocket.
I intend to use it to get him in the death position, but first, I need to bring him to his knees.
Get his throat within easy striking distance.
Kaidren raises his hands to block himself at my approach. It leaves his sides unguarded, so I swing a fist at his left flank.
My hope is to exploit the small advantage that I’ve had at least some training with—
Kaidren captures my fist, and with it, my brief hope that this will be easy.
My throat dries and I jab with my other hand, striking him on his unguarded side.
Kaidren doesn’t even blink.
The decurio uniforms have flexible leather stitched around the ribs, which, unfortunately, provides enough padding to block the sensation of my feeble punches.
Dammit.
New strategy—exploit his only weakness: he can’t multi-task. He was too focused on capturing one hand to deflect the other.
I kick him in the shin.
That gets a flinch out of him, sharp enough I can tug my wrist out of his hold and jerk back.
We circle each other, silent and wary.
I lunge first, aiming a punch at his gut.
He clumsily bats my hand away, but as he does, I kick his shin again.
That earns me another flinch, but it does little to weaken him overall.
Kaidren and I skate over snow in a jumble of uncoordinated limbs and ineffective hits.
I might be smaller and more nimble than he is, but it’s only slightly helpful. After two minutes of hitting his sides and kicking his knees, I’m no closer to knocking him over than I was when this started. My problem isn’t speed or accuracy. It’s impact.
I can land a jab, but I can’t hit him hard enough for it to matter.
Time to shift strategy. If I can’t generate enough force with my fists and legs, I need something larger.
Kaidren tries to swipe my feet out from under me. I leap over his extended leg, pressing closer to him.
I curl a fist and thrust it at his side, slower than before.
He takes the bait. Snatches at my arm before I can strike him.
As Kaidren focuses on grabbing me—I ram my body into his.
The force of an entire person hurtling against him is enough to put him off-balance. He doesn’t tip over, but in his shock, he throws out his arms for stability.
My body is still near his. I hook a leg around him and shove my heavy boot into the back of his knee.
Kaidren’s leg buckles. My palms slap against his chest, sending him tumbling, flailing limbs and all.
My goal is to land on top of him, so I can press the knife hidden in my pocket to his throat.
I fail.
Well, not entirely.
I knock him over and land astride his body, as planned. He’s on his back, and I’m poised over his chest, legs on either side of his wide torso.
Where I go wrong: I underestimate his reaction time. The instant his back hits the ground, he wraps his arms around me and rolls us over.
I’m breathless as he slams me into the snow. Kaidren’s body is laid out over mine. I feel each pane of him, warm and solid. His broad chest, rising and falling rapidly; the muscles of his abdomen, taut and clenched tight; the cords of his thighs, muscle bound and warm, as they dig into my hips.
Our breaths are heavy, faces a hairsbreadth away, panting white mist into the air between us.
This is the closest we’ve ever been. Through the mesh eyes of my mask, I see him. Every contour of his face, the light flush of his cheeks from exertion and cold, the soft lines around his mouth, the slight crookedness of his nose. From this distance, I can count his damn eyelashes.
The false kindness he dons like armor is gone. As I breathe his air and feel his heartbeat, he is all harsh lines and wild eyes.
His lips curl into a snarl as a creeping, gloved hand slides down, down, down, along my side . . .
My eyes follow its path. We’ve landed near a discarded blade. It used to have a tshira hilt, but that’s a puddle of useless goo now.
The blade is just outside his arm’s reach. If he shifts us over, he’ll have all he needs to kill me in seconds. Worse, he could win.
Not an option.
I try and bring up my arms to shove him off me.
Before I can, he slots his free arm over my chest. His arm spans the width of my shoulders, pinning them—and me—to the ground.
I struggle ineffectually beneath him, glaring through mesh.
Ice crystals creep through the fabric of my uniform around my neck. I shudder at the sensation of snow melting against my skin, burning and cold, all at once.
Kaidren takes a deep breath—and the hand straining for the sword wavers.
A murky emotion flickers in his deep brown eyes. They widen in something like surprise, and his slightly crooked nose scrunches in confusion.
Why? I have no idea, nor do I care. My arms are trapped, my knife is stuck in a pocket I can’t reach, and I have only a moment of reprieve to get myself out of this.
Panicked, I draw up the only part of my body I have left at my disposal—my legs—and ensnare them around his waist.
Kaidren tenses. His reaching hand freezes.
I cross my ankles behind his back, drawing him even closer. Breath rushes from his lungs to fan against my mask as his chest slams into mine.
The impact makes my mask slip. The edge rides up, leaving a sliver of my jaw and lower cheek exposed.
Kaidren’s halting breaths heat my bare skin. Panic clogs my throat. If he presses forward, he will touch me, and all of this will be for nothing.
My arms are still trapped, I can’t fix my mask, and I’m clenched all over with the terror that he’s going to make contact.
I refuse to lose like this.
I burrow my neck and head deeper into the snow. The cold is a creeping tendril that slithers down my spine, making my teeth chatter, but it puts a bit of distance between my face and Kaidren’s.
The shock from his expression fades, and his attention shifts back to the blade. His arm stretches toward it again—
No.
I need to roll him over. I need to turn him in the opposite direction so he can’t get hold of a weapon.
Using my thighs to tether myself to him, I drag them down his waist, until they’re coiled around his hips like a belt.
I expect Kaidren to realize what I’m doing and fight back.
He doesn’t. Instead, he stills. His perfect teeth grit together, eyes fluttering. He looks cold, as if he has snow melting down his neck as well. Or as if he’s in pain. Or . . .
Stars in hell.
Only now do I consider our position. We’re both sweaty and flushed. My legs are knotted around him like twine, my chest is flattened beneath him, and our hips are practically welded together.
What I see on his face—feel from his racing pulse—isn’t pain. It’s arousal.
In any other situation, I might be embarrassed. From the way I’ve thrown myself against him, or from the way his body reacts so readily to mine. But there’s no time for shame.
Kaidren has no idea the girl beneath him is me. If the feel of a stranger’s body is enough to melt him into a starheaded fool, I’ll happily use it to my advantage.
I have no experience in seduction, but I artlessly rotate my hips.
Kaidren’s head falls forward.
My jaw is still uncovered, so I jerk my head to the side. His forehead slams into my opposite shoulder with a tortured sound I now know is a muffled groan. “Stars in hell, what are you doing?” His voice is huskier than I’ve ever heard it.
My heartbeat quickens. In truth, I have no idea what I’m doing, but whatever it is appears to be working.
Maybe a little too well. His voice is roughened like this. He sounds tense and out of control. Most days, Kaidren Vale is full of a practiced charm I hate, but in this moment, in the middle of an arena, he’s untamed.
The snow against my back is cold. Everything on this damned mountain turns to ice, but wherever my body touches his is scorched.
I’m scalded from within, as though flames are licking greedily at my insides. I’m horrified by the realization that I like the way he feels against me. He is firm, muscled, and warm.
It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that his body responds to mine, or that my body reacts to his—I despise him. I’m plotting his ruin. And I’m going to win.
The arm banded across my chest has loosened, enough for my fingers to glide down his side.
He shudders. He’s not even fighting back.
I almost can’t believe how easy this is.
This is a different kind of control from what I’m used to.
Different from the power I’ve been chasing since childhood.
This power—the kind that comes from unraveling a man with allure I didn’t know I possessed, rather than with secrets and magic—is deliciously addictive.
My trailing hand reaches the knife in my pocket.
Kaidren doesn’t notice. He’s staring through the mesh over my eyes, attention fixated on the face he can’t see, breathing deeply.
Before he can react, I twist. Clench my thighs, rotate my hips, and roll us over.
I’m poised over him, straddling his torso. My face hovers above his, a gasp of air away, both of us are out of breath—
And I’ve got a knife’s blade pressed to his throat.
The haze of desire fades from his eyes. His mouth drops open in shock.
He can’t see my face, but I smirk. I lean, masked mouth to his ear. “I believe this means I win.” I deepen my voice, so he doesn’t recognize it. And just to rub it in, I add, “Bastard Vale.”
The rest of the world comes sharply into focus.
The arena is screaming around us. Even louder than before, because there’s a winner and it’s me.
The remaining soldiers drop their weapons. A few peel off their masks, looking relieved.
I count them. We started with twenty-one. There are eight bodies scattered across the field, either dead or too injured to stand.
I scramble off Kaidren. He’s still panting, looking shocked, but I ignore him. My eyes search for Luc, wishing I could remove my mask so he can see my grin.
That brief swell of pride wisps away. My heart falls.
Luc is on the other side of the arena, joined by Tarek Fain, General of the decurio. He grabs one of Luc’s arms and raises it, heralding him as the winner, calling on the audience to cheer for their Praeceptor, champion of the first trial.
As the General shouts to the crowd, going on and on about Luc’s impressive victory, and the audience shrieks and stomps their feet in the stands, Luc doesn’t glance back at me. Not even once.
Blood and fervor pulse through me, fiery enough to burn.
I keep staring, willing my brother to look at me. Willing him to meet my gaze with a secret smile that says that he sees me. That he knows this moment, this victory, is because of me.
He doesn’t.
Icy tears of hurt and fury sting my eyes.
The survivors of Luc’s team gather around him. They jump, celebrating him, applauding him, right along with the rest of the crowd.
Luc cheers with them. Smiling wide enough to split his face open. And still, he doesn’t look at me.
My heart cracks in two. Both halves shatter in the snow.
I don’t move. I just watch. My throat burns with words I want to scream, but I can’t, because I’m not a person with a voice. I’m a shadow in the rafters, and shadows are, above all else, silent.
I crafted him a plan for victory. I forced him to memorize it. I took the mortal risk of disguising myself as a soldier. I charged across a field of war and blood. I wrestled a man trying to kill me to win Luc this victory.
And none of it matters. He doesn’t care, and when this is over, after I’ve won him his Tournament and stolen him his throne, nothing will have changed. Not for me, anyway.
Ice and steel. You’re made of ice and steel.
Normally, if I repeat it to myself enough times, I can force myself to feel it. Freeze my heart, hide it behind a steel wall, and fake a smile.
Here, surrounded by snow and screaming spectators, my rage doesn’t cool.
I am a cheat, a sneak, and a thief. All I have to show for it is a temporary place in Luc’s shadow. It isn’t fair. Nothing is. Fairness is the childish fantasy of a starheaded little girl who used to dream of this life I’ve grown to hate.
For the past five years, I’ve dedicated my life to being anything and everything that Luc needs me to be. Stealing power, trading secrets, all to suit him—and he can’t even spare me a glance after I’ve risked my life so he can have it all.
“You’re either useful to me, or you’re nothing.”
I am so, so tired of being nothing.
The crowd cheers for Luc, but I won this trial. Luc was born and raised in the glittering softness of Virdei. He was handed luxuries like compassion and kindness, only to waste them on everyone but me.
He has never known the heartbreak of being forgotten, cast aside, and taken for granted by those meant to love you. He will. I promise myself, I’m going to make him feel the way I do right now. Make him feel as heartbroken and powerless and useless as he makes me feel day after day.
And unlike Lucien Kyler, whose parents have now joined him in the center of the arena, hands raised, accepting the twin praise of Virdei and Petruvia, when I make a promise, I deliver.
I’ll show him just how cruel I can be.
I’ve outgrown my current mask. I’ll craft myself a new one made of ice and a spine of steel. I’ll keep up the facade. I’ll take what he asks of me. I’ll win him this damned Tournament. I’ll serve Lucien Kyler the Virdeian throne on a silver platter.
And then I’m going to steal it for myself.