Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The tournament grounds rang with the clash of fists and the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd.
The air was bitingly cold—just how Raveena liked it.
The icicles were sharp enough to sting the lungs and chase the weak indoors.
Snowflakes danced like ash in the air, settling on cloaks, on helms, on the rough-hewn wood of the stands.
The sweat? That was another matter entirely.
Raveena wrinkled her nose as the musk of unwashed bodies wafted past. Men soaked in exertion and testosterone puffed up with pride as they pummeled each other like beasts in rut.
Most stank of arrogance, their sweat thick and sour.
Graham’s was the only scent that didn’t offend her sensibilities.
The essence that wept from his body held the wild tang of pine and frost, like the wind off the Fenvalen mountains.
His sweat she could breathe in like perfume. The rest? Offensive.
Animals brayed and stamped nearby—horses, hounds, even the occasional exotic mount brought in to impress the crowds. Raveena wasn’t overly fond of animals. Or the outdoors. Or men who bled on things. The stink of blood and metal and churned earth clung to everything in the arena.
Give her a civilized game played in high-backed chairs, beneath golden chandeliers, where the stakes were thrones and crowns, not bruises and broken teeth.
Let others swing swords and grunt in mud; she preferred games with sharper edges—those played with smiles, silence, and secrets.
Games where the prize wasn’t a battered trophy or fleeting glory but something enduring. Something eternal. Like a kingdom.
She sat atop the carved stone dais beside the other highborn women of the realm. The velvet canopy overhead filtered the morning sun into a cool blue shade. The seats were layered in furs, and goblets of spiced wine were cradled in jeweled hands.
Down below, bare-chested warriors grappled in the ring of packed snow, their bodies slick with exertion, muscles straining under the eyes of queens and princesses who watched with no pretense of modesty.
Every time a man landed a blow that sent his opponent to his knees, the ladies tittered behind their gloves, gasped behind their fans.
This wasn’t about shock. It was about thrill. The bloodied knuckles, the sharp grunts, the visible power of men pitted against one another—it delighted them.
Raveena leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, her dark gown cascading around her like a pool of ink. Her gaze, cool and curious, scanned the ring—and caught.
Graham stood at the edge of the arena, shirtless, fists taped, the cold wind carving steam from his skin.
Snowflakes clung to his hair and shoulders, melting into rivulets that traced the ridges of his muscles.
He looked like something out of a dark forest come to steal wandering princesses away.
Half-war god, half-wolf—hewn from rage and survival.
Dangerous in the way only men who’d seen war and come back sharper could be.
“Is that him?” one lady whispered behind her fan.
“The Wolf of the Troll Wars,” said another, breathless. “I didn’t know he was so… large.”
Yes, Raveena thought, lips curving faintly as she turned and glared at the two women. And he’s mine. The girls were smart. They covered their mouths and averted their gazes from both Raveena and Graham.
Good. Let every queen, every daughter, every calculating heiress in the realm watch her man fight. Let them drool and plot and fantasize. But each one had better recognize that Graham Huntsman was off-limits.
He was hers.
Graham stepped into the ring, shoulders rolling, eyes narrowed in concentration. There was a quiet grace to him, even in stillness. His movements foretold of the leashed power of a man who only needed a reason to destroy.
Raveena waited. Waited for the flick of his gaze. For the glance. The acknowledgment that she was there, watching him.
Nothing.
He didn’t look at her. Not once. In fact, he prowled to the edge of the ring that was closest to her seat, and then the bastard turned and gave her his back.
Her fingers tightened on the stem of her goblet. So that was how they were going to play it? He was going to ignore her.
Her expression remained cool as she decided her next move. She would let him. Let him try, anyway. Just as she was always eager to sink to her knees when they were alone, he was always eager to find a way to get her alone.
Let him enjoy his little moment in the ring, his crowd of admirers, his noble pretense. Because after this match—win or lose—he’d come to her. And she would remind him of exactly who he belonged to.
A hush fell over the crowd as the announcer stepped into the center of the ring, his voice rising above the wintry din, clear and ceremonial.
“Representing the queen’s guard, undefeated in ten tournaments, the pride of Fenvalen, the Wolf of the Troll Wars—Graham Huntsman!”
The crowd erupted. Cheers, stomping boots, raised mugs. Raveena didn’t join in. People might know she slept with the wolf. But it would be undignified to make a spectacle of herself in public.
The announcer raised his hand again. “And facing him today—” A pause, the opponent’s name came next.
Raveena didn’t bother to catch it. Something forgettable.
A smattering of polite applause followed, but already the crowd’s attention had shifted, already their cheers were for the predator, not the prey.
The contender could have been a blacksmith’s son, a third-born noble desperate for notice, a drunk with a good punch. It didn’t matter. He was about to have his body laid flat in the snow by her wolf.
Graham stepped to the center of the ring like a man doing a chore. No grand gestures. No roaring for the crowd. Just that slow, coiled walk of someone who’d already sized up the fight and found it wanting.
The official gave the nod. The crowd leaned forward. The opponent lunged. It was over in seconds.
One feint. One pivot. One solid punch to the gut that doubled the fool over, followed by a brutal uppercut that sent him sprawling out of the ring and into the snow.
The audience gasped—then roared. Chairs scraped. Gloves clapped. Ladies squealed behind their hands. Coins changed hands as bets were collected with delighted cheers.
Graham stood over the crumpled body of his opponent. He didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t nod to the crowd. Didn't look at his queen. Just turned and walked back toward the edge of the ring like he’d taken out the trash.
The ladies' laughter shifted as the murmurs of the court shifted toward the arrival of a late guest. Snow White glided toward the royal box in her usual shade of pale blue.
As always, she looked slightly out of place—like she belonged in a nursery rhyme instead of a battlefield gallery. She moved with grace but no fire.
“Running late, dear?” Raveena asked smoothly, her voice laced with frost.
Snow gave a placid smile. “A doe had trouble with her fawn. I couldn’t leave her unattended.”
Lady Charming leaned forward then, ever the stately viper. “Such care for the helpless. It speaks to your nurturing instincts, Snow. Qualities like that show you’d make an excellent mother.”
A murmur of agreement followed. Raveena caught the not-so-subtle way the older women nodded, measuring wombs as they measured power.
Before Raveena could respond, a ripple moved through the crowd as Prince Charming emerged. The sun struck the polished silver of his armor, drawing cheers from the spectators and delighted sighs from the women in the box. He had that practiced smile on, the one he used when he wanted something.
“Ladies,” he said, voice smooth as cream. “Your presence has turned this field of battle into a garden of glory.”
A few ladies fluttered like they hadn’t heard the same line from his lips a dozen times before.
“For you, my lady…” Charming turned to Snow, taking her gloved hand in his, bending to kiss her knuckles. “I shall win my next bout.”
Snow blushed—of course she did—and gave a shy, demure smile.
But then, as Charming's lips pulled away, he turned ever so slightly. And winked. At Raveena.
Raveena had to fight not to roll her eyes right then and there. Because that wink—ridiculous and arrogant and childish as it might be—meant only one thing. She was still in this game of thrones.
She could see it in Charming's smug little smirk: He thought himself clever. Thought he could bed the queen, marry the princess, and hold the loyalty of both.
Let him think he was winning. Let Snow preen like she had been chosen. Let the ladies gossip. The Winter tournament of fists and blood wasn’t the only match being played today.
Charming did win his first bout in the games. It wasn't as quick as Graham's. No, the prince drew it out, playing with this opponent. It was all for show. And at the end, he blew a kiss to the princess and gave another lascivious look to the queen.
Yes, he was definitely playing the two of them. Hmm, the kid might be smarter than Raveena gave him credit for. But she saw the board from many angles. And unlike her two na?ve opponents, she would adjust her strategy accordingly.