Chapter 24
P erfect . The echo of that word boomeranged around Bronze’s skull, touching points north and south with such force that it was liable to decimate any remaining foundation he’d fortified within. Clara was absolutely so fucking perfect that the truth of it was strong enough to make him forget the whys of what had gotten him there in the first place.
What would be if she was my why, though? Would that truly be so terrible?
He dragged his lips along the thin underside of her wrist again just to see the way her lips tried to resist curling into the smile he always knew he could coax out of her. He’d learned that neat little trick the first time he’d had her up against the dresser. After that, their coming together had been new and wild and savage. Her nails digging into his ass, the delicate bruises of his grip against her hips. The sex was needed for the both of them, more to affirm just how fucking short life could be. His own had flashed before his eyes when the fall of Clara’s frosted hair had flipped over that fence rail, and even though he was technically immortal, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be killed, rather that his life was just long-lived.
It all would have ended in a heartbeat, however, if Clara had fallen on the minefield.
After that, no amount of holding her would ever have been enough to erase the could-have-beens from his mind, so he made to consume her instead.
Dresser, floor, dresser once more, up against the wall, then her gripping the door of the armoire as he blanketed her from behind and swore out oaths of a different kind against the back of her neck. For untold hours, they had been locked together in a storm with no ending, only moving in the rhythms of frantic need. And every opportunity he had, he would offer up a kiss to that smooth patch of flawless skin at her wrist, unmarred by any sort of soul bond symbol that would have sealed his fate and would perhaps stand to make sense of what was happening to him. Why he couldn’t access his power . . . or, take it one mindfuck further, imagine a future that somehow, someway still saw her by his side as anything other than an aloof monarch.
But when they joined, the symbol hadn’t appeared as it would have had they been soul bonds. His symbol. The mark of his celestial name written in the ancient language of the Empyrean. A distinction that only manifested when two souls contained matching sparks of the Eternal Flame and joined together to create the soul bond.
Yeah, none of that had happened for them. And honestly, it was fine. Good. Great. Better than great, even, because who the hell needed to lug around any more disappointment? And with these checked bag fees? No thank you. Bronze was so sick of the stuff, he’d rather lick Lord Raff’s boots than haul around another ounce of regret.
As Bronze lay on his back, with Clara’s naked form tucked to his side and her delicate fingers running idle swirls across his chest, he was relieved. Honestly and truly relieved. If Clara had been his soul bond, once she fell asleep, he wouldn’t have been able to consciously leave her bed to follow the path of that serving female who had been holding the relic. He would have been glued to all of her sensuous sides and said to hell with the Empyrean.
As that wasn’t the case, however, he was fully obligated to get swept up by the shock of seeing the relic bob down the hallway like a bag of laundry. The sight had hit him almost as strongly as the sight of Clara, clean and healthy and breathing, staring back at him with those molten maple eyes and a gasp on her lips as he moved within her, moved together.
As complicated as it was, he’d decided to stay with her then. And soon, he’d make another decision, then another, and another. That was all life was anyway, right? A series of choices that moved unattached nomads around the playing field while they hoped like hell they still got to pass Go and snag that eternal two hundred dollars every now and then.
Because she wasn’t his. Fate had made that perfectly clear, and he had no right to make choices that included her beyond what they’d agreed.
“Lord Raff knew about the mines,” Clara said softly into the cushion of her puddled hair against his chest. “I wasn’t entirely sure what I was seeing at first, but after the explosion, the way he maneuvered around the field was so intentional that there was almost a pattern to it. Always on the tips of his toes, always two steps forward in quick succession, then a step to the left, followed by two more quick steps forward, all near the perimeter of the arena. Why would someone step in such a pattern if the mines were truly random and if he had not known they were there to begin with?”
Bronze snorted. “Sounds like the king’s been sharing some secrets.”
“Unfortunately. It also means we must assume that for the two games to come, the king has favored his champion unfairly.” She lifted her head, and the worried wings of her brows nearly unstitched him. It was the look of a daughter’s lost respect for the male who had raised her. “I knew he was capable of this sort of treachery, but I just didn’t think he would stoop so low as to use it in such a public setting.”
“A threatened male can get pretty damn desperate.”
“So can a gray wolf lycan and, apparently, a Canadian timber wolf lycan as well. Ridiculous, really, given their lineage.”
Bronze tucked his chin to examine her more closely. “Lineage?”
“My father is a gray wolf lycan, descended from the gray wolves of North America. Fierce, powerful, incredibly dominant and stubborn. Lord Raff, on the other hand, is a Canadian timber wolf lycan, descended from the wolves of western North America and what the humans call Alaska. The timber wolf lycans are one of the largest wolf species in existence, well acclimated to the harshest climates, and are viciously protective of what they deem as theirs.”
“Makes sense. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I had no idea your culture was so rich and varied.” Bronze dragged his fingers through her silken strands, playing with the frosted tips. “And you, princess? Where does the other half of your kind hail from?”
“The Arctic.”
“I knew you were coldhearted, but I never knew you were an original ice queen. Ow!”
Clara pinched his side but quickly soothed the small hurt with a gentle hand over his skin. “Everything is a joke to you, isn’t it?” Her faux ire was masked by a genuine chuckle, however.
“The world would be an infinitely harder place without levity. It’s been scientifically proven. Laughter creates dopamine, or what mortals call the ‘happy hormone.’ Dopamine serves as a sort of buffer between cortisol and adrenaline. It’s what helps push us through to the finish line and why people who laugh often are more likely to accomplish hard things.”
“What a wondrous world your mind is, truly.”
“Honey, you have no idea. It’s like Disney World up there.” He winked, and she hid her smile against his chest, but his muscles still twitched when they picked up on her concealed joy.
“I am an arctic wolf lycan, descended from polar wolves that roam among the frozen tundra and forests of the great north. I believe the nation of Canada calls that area Queen Elizabeth Islands. My mother was also an arctic lycan, and I inherited most of her genetics, but she was mated to my father out of obligation. Her ancestral homeland is small, and there is only so much to offer in trade. Agreeing to mate him was a way out for her, as well as an opportunity to learn more of the world, despite the reputation my father had long fostered.” Her stiff swallow paved a hard track against Bronze’s ribs. He knew what was coming at him real fast and wished like hell he could stop the pain that was about to rise up anew for her. “She died in childbirth with me.”
“I’m sorry, princess.” He gripped her tighter, offering his support in the form of his strength.
“It was a long time ago. But now that you know what sort of lycan Lord Raff is, you must take extra care with him. His wolf is the most efficient of hunters, with unmatched speed and endurance, let alone the sheer size and weight of him. If he should let his lycan free, there won’t be anything you could do to?—”
Bronze froze as her words slapped something free in his mind that, up until then, he’d been fair-to-middling at not hyper-focusing on. But then she whipped the sheet off his vulnerability and started poking at the tender flesh he hadn’t had time to care for yet. Bronze hinged up off the bed and shifted her off him. “Are you saying you don’t think I can beat him?”
“You don’t have your powers, Bronze. There’s no metal allowed here, and metal is what you need to regenerate. You told me so yourself!”
As if he needed a fucking reminder. Had he not proven that he was more than capable of adapting? That he knew the stakes well enough to fight the battle before him, regardless of how much it differed from the one he’d prepared for?
“That doesn’t mean I’m powerless. I thought I proved that to you, but I clearly didn’t do a good enough job for you to actually believe me.” Bronze threw his feet over the bed and punched his legs into his pants, then searched around for his shirt.
“Bronze, come back here.” Clara wrapped herself in the bedsheet before trailing him to the door. “Let’s talk about this. What did I say? I thought I was speaking a truth.”
“Oh, you spoke a truth all right. Your truth, not mine. I gotta go. Better rest up before tomorrow’s big day. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you with a poor performance.”
“Bronze!”
He slammed the door with a resounding thud and thanked the prime mages for solid oak construction. Despite what he said in there, he was so not strong enough to hear another plea fall from her perfect lips or see the respect she once held for him dim her eyes further.
There was more to a competition than the players, especially when there was an alternate game to be won. Bronze held on to that thought and armored himself with it as he made his way down the stairs where the serving lycan had gone earlier.
The old stones encasing the lower level of King Halpin’s keep groaned with a pregnant energy that was almost predatory. Every step Bronze took was heavy beneath the weight of unseen forces watching him. There was history here, encapsulated in the ancient limestone, and if Bronze was in any less of a hurry, he might have stopped to admire the scenery. Or at the very least put a palm up to the stuff and see whether the answers to his wishes would be whispered back to him. Yet left alone in the silence as he was, he didn’t have the luxury of such fanciful exploits. Any thoughts about his powers that he needed to sort out would be best left for when he was in his dormitory and the back of his head was flat against the threadbare pillow on his cot.
Long-stowed images of Malik, and a few of Polina, surged through the mire of his mind as he examined the great oak door in front of him. Of the two doors he’d yet to see anyone enter or exit from, this one was the only entrance accessible by the stairwell the old serving lycan had walked down.
He didn’t need Malik’s shadow sensory ability to know this was where the moonstone relic had been stored.
It would be so easy to bust in, nab it, and make like he’d never been there in the first place. Clara and her father would have far too much going on to search him out, especially among the supposed human lands, where, deep down, the lycan leaders seemed to fear what they did not understand. Even if Lord Barf led the charge, he was not from this part of the country. Without the use of technology and relying on scent and inner fury alone, Raff would have very few resources available to go after Bronze.
And by the time Raff did pick up on his trail, Bronze could have that relic nestled safely in the sentinels’ den, where Chrome and Rhode could put their massive craniums to good use and figure out how the hell to get them all home so he wouldn’t have to wonder about Clara anymore?—
“There are so many questions I could ask, but a wise lycan never offers up questions to which he does not know the answers to already, so it would be a waste of time for both of us.” Lord Raff’s quiet warning bounced off the stones, making the small hallway even more claustrophobic.
Bronze squeezed his eyes shut and cursed inwardly, not wanting to admit how his lack of celestial powers had allowed that asshole to follow him or just how right Clara’s statement about him being powerless actually was.
Irony could fuck all the way off.
What Bronze wouldn’t do for his sickle sword and a fully loaded Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm with the threaded barrel, no safety, and half a dozen magazines. Instead, he’d have to settle for his bare knuckles, fancy footwork, and big-ass mouth that had gotten him both in and out of more fights than the sky had stars.
Handy, that last asset. Truly.
Bronze turned his back on his literal door prize and pushed his punishing verbal weight into the lycan who had offered up his dance card. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had a crush on me. You know, if you wanted to cuddle, you could have just asked.” Bronze spread his arms wide. “Plenty of me to go around.”
Lord Raff stood at the base of the stairwell, unamused and uninterested. The stony lock of his forearms across his barrel chest was a challenge welcoming anyone to lock horns with him. And if Bronze wasn’t in such a pissy mood, he might have taken the male up on his offer just so Bronze’s body could stay nice and loose.
“Dances bore me, so I’ll not engage in them.” A stone-cold gaze to match the walls around them hardened on Bronze. “You are no demigod.”
Shit. The assertion momentarily took Bronze by surprise, but eons of quick reflexes had taught him to suppress any sort of outward sign in the midst of the enemy. Instead, he stood silent, frozen, waiting for Raff to reveal more so Bronze could evaluate his next move.
Raff stepped away from the stairwell and, with his arms still crossed, began to walk in a slow semicircle around Bronze. “I have known a fair bit of power in my day, and you, my male, have none. Besides, I can think of no reason for a demigod to be seen skulking around the king’s keep, patting down the door to the royal coffers the night before the second trial he is to compete in, or storming out of the princess’s bedchamber moments before his little unescorted excursion down here. Unless, of course, his plan was to never compete at all but nab what valuables he could and flee in the night before the sun rose and no one was the wiser.”
“Do you really like the sound of your own voice that much? Honestly, I know you guys aren’t the techie sort, but you’d save your poor vocal cords so much effort if you could just record your boring-ass monologues and play them back at your leisure.”
“Humor is the weakest of defense mechanisms. Jokes are often made to smooth over the most uncomfortable situations, such as imminent death or the catastrophic heartbreak of broken trust.”
“Nah. You’re just an asshole who hasn’t had a reason to giggle since your second inadvertently tickled your balls. How is Lord Byron, by the way? Still . . . kicking ?”
Despite Bronze’s totally obvious and definitely intentional low blow, the icy facade he was hoping to score some cracks in held firm.
“Oh, he is healed. Timber wolf lycan blood is strong. We mend quite quickly, unlike humans and other species .”
Bronze’s veins filled with blood so heated, he was liable to explode and paint the asshole in Bronze’s favorite shade of gore.
Raff raised a palm to Bronze, as if somehow sensing his opponent was on the verge of going nuclear. “Tell me, does the princess know you’re down here, attempting to service her father’s cache so soon after servicing her ?”
“Shut your fucking mouth or I’ll do it for you.”
“No need. I’ve got all the confirmation I require, and soon, so will the king and his daughter. There is no reason to bother His Majesty with this bit of nonsense right now. The king and I are like-minded, after all, when it comes to goals and priorities.” Raff prowled closer until flecks of russet twinkled in the torchlight within the thicket of his dark beard. “You see, I have never portrayed myself to be anything other than what I present. Strength, power, the need for an ally to unite the great lycan territories, and a willingness to rut with any royal female who comes with her fair share of land and?—"
The punch split the skin on Bronze’s fist, but the pain was well worth the satisfying crack of Raff’s jaw as it swung in suspended animation from one side to the other, separating from that vital hinge structure that allowed the male to run his damn mouth.
Bronze braced his forearm against the male’s thick neck like the iron bar he willed it to be and snarled at the lycan. “You so much as dream of her and I’ll fucking neuter you with the blunt edge of those ceramic blades your kind is so fond of using . . . after I pummel your stones into flapjacks beneath my boots, you miserable piece of lycan filth.”
“I wonder,” the lycan mused calmly in between subtle coughs, “does the princess know how money-motivated you truly are? What would be if her beloved champion was not entirely the male she thought him to be?”
The knee that found its mark between Bronze’s legs was Lord Raff’s answer and warning to Bronze’s ill-conceived threat.
Shouldn’t have given him the fucking idea to go for the jewels.
As Bronze grunted through his foolishness and fell to his knees, with one hand protecting his groin while the other was fisted and poised to fly at the nearest chin, Lord Raff moved with eerie grace from the wall he’d been held against and marched toward the stairwell. “I’d wish you good luck, but I’ve never much favored the folly of it. I make my own luck. So, I’ll just say this: may the best male win.”
“Fuck . . . you,” Bronze ground out, but his threat was gobbled up by the shadows left in the wake of Lord Raff’s exit, as if even Bronze’s words were too powerless to fight back.