Chapter 25
T he morning sun chased away the lingering fog that had settled thickly over the practice arena. Damp dirt quickly had its moisture baked off, leaving a cool yet lightly packed surface on which the second Betrothal Game would commence. Tension heaped its burden onto Clara’s shoulders, and the oppressive weight was beginning to become more than her wolf could handle.
Guilt made for an abhorrent support system. It truly did.
It had taken several precious seconds to realize the fault in her behavior from the night before. Unfortunately, time could never be called back once lost, nor could her words or the penetrating shock they’d struck Bronze with. And like any warrior, he took the hits well, barely letting on how deep the wound had really been.
But oh, she knew. She saw it in the puckered stillness of the lines at the corners of his eyes and how swiftly he armored himself with wit and fled the thing that wounded him.
She was that thing, that awful thoughtless thing, and now she was about to watch him walk into that arena for what may well be the last time, with the knowledge that her actions had already incapacitated him.
The entire situation eluded and confounded her, for her experience in groveling was limited to the profuse apologies she’d offer up to her father when he was displeased with her, regardless of whether or not she was at direct fault. But to grovel to a male who she not only respected but had begun to feel closer to than her own wolf at times?
In all their talk of being powerless, Clara had never thought the term would apply to herself, yet there she sat, primped and poised before an empty arena next to a king who’d rather barter his daughter off than love her. A princess in name only. A symbol.
A fool.
But not for long.
Clara squared her shoulders against the hushed murmurs of the gathered crowd and silently watched as the competitors marched bare-chested into the arena.
The shock of auburn hair pulled tight into a small bun at the back of Bronze’s head gave her the confidence to proceed with what she had planned. And even though she willed those hazel eyes to find hers so she might implore a different, far more earnest truth into them than the one she’d spewed before out of panicked foolishness, she didn’t let her disappointment show when they skimmed past her. Though it still stung, it was the least she deserved. She just hoped her cunning was enough to convey the full measure of her heart instead of the errors of her words.
The king stood next to Clara and, once again, raised his hands to silence the crowd’s excitement. “We thank all who have gathered to observe the second Betrothal Game. Today’s trial shall test one of the greatest attributes of our lycan heritage,” he said, letting the emphasis on their species distinction linger in Bronze’s direction. “I look forward to shaking the hands of whichever champion can truly exemplify this credo.”
Pascal stepped forward then and unfurled the royal burgundy banner with the words “With strength, we capture” held high for all to see.
Clara’s stomach somersaulted over the knot of worry that had lodged itself there.
A strength challenge. When Lord Raff is almost twice the size of Bronze.
No, she chided herself. She would not discount the angel. If she did, then she was no better than the doubting female who’d broken the spirit of her male mere moments after he’d made hers soar to heights she’d never known before.
Taking the cue from her emotions, her wolf pounced on the kernel of doubt until it was nothing more than the whisper of a bad memory. And then, true to the lupine female’s urges, she replaced her worry with new, far more accurate depictions of just how strong Bronze truly was.
Memories of his chest glowing and cushioned with more than enough strength to hold her trembling naked body above his as he eased and supported her over his thick arousal. Or positioning her with such care as he entered her from behind, much to her she-wolf’s delight, and spearing her slowly, hunting out her release while holding back his own.
Oh, yes, her male had strength in spades, and didn’t deserve an ounce of her pity or doubt.
Please let this work.
“Now, as you may have noticed, one of our champions is no longer able to compete. Sir Byron, Lord Raff’s second, while mostly healed of the injuries incurred during the first Betrothal Game, still remains at a physical disadvantage and has, therefore, withdrawn.” The king extended his hand toward the seat below him, where Sir Byon sat looking altogether indifferent, as if it didn’t matter whether he was eliminated from a schoolyard game or the running for a job promotion. “We wish you all the best in your recovery, Sir Byron.”
“I serve at the will of Lord Raff,” the blond behemoth said with a monotone drawl and a dismissive shake of his fingers.
Meanwhile, Clara was seeing ten thousand shades of red at her father’s use of the word disadvantage .
We’ll see about that.
King Halpin clapped his hands together. “Lord Raff and Bronze the demigod are each wearing two leather armbands secured around their biceps. The goal of the game is simple: the first champion to capture both of the other opponent’s armbands through a feat of strength alone shall be declared the winner.”
But as the king sat back into his overstuffed cushion, Clara shot to her feet. “Before the champions can compete, however, each must be outfitted with a uniform of equal make.”
She finally connected with Bronze’s gaze then, along with Lord Raff’s, her father’s, and every other lycan gathered in the field.
“What are you talking about, Clara?” her father hissed.
Instead of matching his whispered words, she projected her voice even further, ensuring all in attendance could hear her. “I would like to echo the king’s sentiments regarding how important it is that no champion is left to a disadvantage. While both males are to compete bare-chested, as is common among grappling, the looseness of their individual trousers may provide opportunities for injury. But not to worry, I have provided a remedy to the situation.” Clara waved her hands toward two male attendants, who had been standing off to the side, each with a small stack of clothing in their hands. “With your esteemed permission, Your Majesty, the start of the game shall be delayed by five minutes to allow the competitors to change into the uniform fight shorts I have provided. And we must all thank the king wholeheartedly for his endearing determination to ensure that no individual, not even our chosen champions, should be at a disadvantage when competing for something so important as the future of this lycan monarchy.”
With that, she clapped and clapped and clapped some more until every pair of hands had no choice but to follow her lead and weigh down the objection that was firmly poised on the tip of her father’s tongue.
She had him. Oh, by the Moon Mother, she had him. Refusing her would not only go against his earlier words proclaiming fairness but would also undermine the integrity of the games and the cause they fought for.
“Very well,” he muttered, then volleyed a heated gaze between Clara and Lord Raff, who communicated his form of displeasure while swiping the shorts from the attendant.
Clara sank back into her chair and felt the fire of her father’s anger hot against the side of her face, but she didn’t care.
Her part was done. She had succeeded in leveling the playing field, though she was still a bit put off by how stupid her father thought she was. Did he think she wouldn’t notice the way one side of Lord Raff’s trousers draped differently over one leg than the other? Of course the lycan was hiding something within them, and now both the king and Lord Raff knew she knew, too.
She could only hope Bronze would dispatch the lycan quickly so she could go to her angel. If she had to endure one more hour with him hating her, she was liable to leap into that damn arena herself just to win his favor back.
There was only so much denial Bronze could twirl around his noodle before he inevitably settled on two facts: one, his little lycan princess had just outmaneuvered his opponent in far fewer moves than he ever could; and two, they were both playing a very deadly game, one where lies were the currency and advancements were made based on the price of the bargain.
When Bronze had been instructed to remove his shirt and don the leather armbands, his a light brown while Lord Raff’s were black, he wondered where the wild card was going to be hidden, because after realizing he and Clara had both picked up on the same cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater vibe, it wasn’t a matter of if but when.
The uniform swap was pure brilliance on her part and, judging by Raff’s sour punim, dead on, as was what Clara’s very public gesture meant.
A level playing field. Not an acknowledgment of one opponent’s power over the other, but instead establishing that the true power was in the hands of the game and letting the fates decide who deserved to partake of it.
It hurt, the admission of losing his power, but not as much as how good it felt to unburden himself by lamenting his loss with someone else, even if it did mean the road ahead was steeper, harder, and, apparently, as he turned to face Lord Raff, paved with fucking ogres who had a preponderance of hair in the wrong damn places.
The familiar horn blared, signaling the start of the game, and Bronze lunged forward.
And feinted.
Lunged and feinted again.
Honestly, when the two of them came together, it was like an awkward middle school dance where everyone was holding onto shoulders and waists armlengths apart. Raff was physically larger. Nothing Bronze could do about that, and if he wasn’t careful, that big-ass body would plow him into the dirt if the lycan even got so much as a whiff of the upper hand.
But Bronze had a longer reach. Best he could do was get in, jab fast, and tire the fucker out. Where Raff had strength, Bronze had stamina.
Two armbands were held in place by a bit of loose twine. That was it. All he had to do was outlast the snorting bull hurling toward him and swipe off two strips of leather. Easy peasy.
Bronze ducked and dove for Raff’s bicep, snagging the edge of one armband with his middle fingernail but not getting enough of a grip to wrest it free. He jumped back quickly but was a hair too slow and couldn’t avoid a swift blow to the side of his ribs.
“Fucking cheap shot, asshole,” Bronze grunted, holding his side.
Raff smiled, all fang. “Quite.”
After another few seconds or so of light-stepping it, Bronze crouched low, lunged again, then retreated. It took for-fucking-ever , but eventually, Raff started to show signs of wear. The widening nostrils with each breath, the extra second of recovery the male took before throwing a punch or two, with every third one regrettably landing where he aimed it. Despite the hits, however, it was working. Raff was slowly beginning to conform to Bronze’s wrestling style.
Bronze had, at best, another dozen breaths or so before Raff would get wise to that fact, so he had to act. Now.
Hinged at the waist, Raff charged forward and snagged Bronze by the neck. Bronze dropped his arms and let his left one loosely settle on the outside of Raff’s elbow, while he grabbed the male’s wrist with the other.
Let him come to you. Make him think you’re out of juice.
Letting his body fall lax, Bronze dropped his shoulders low but surged forward with minimal strength, just enough to make Raff think he was fighting back. It worked, and Raff stormed forward to counterattack.
Except Bronze had no interest in fighting back. Instead, he dropped his grip on Raff’s right arm, put his hand to the ground to hold himself steady, and shrugged his shoulder away. The lycan lost his balance and his handhold on Bronze and pitched forward . . .
Just enough for Bronze to yank free one of the male’s armbands before kicking out, rotating over, and pinning the lycan beneath him.
The crowd erupted in a cheer loud enough to be felt through the soles of Bronze’s boots. But the loudest cheer of all came from Clara. He shouldn’t have risked a glance, but he’d been about as helpless in that regard as any number of his overused muscles.
Goddamn, she was lovely, with a smile as bright as the moon and far too much pride beaming through her joyful expression for him to ever think for one second that she thought him to be truly powerless.
He was, though. Totally and completely. He knew that now and wasn’t at all surprised she had him pegged long before he’d figured it out, though perhaps not in the way she’d originally meant it. When it came to her, he was truly and utterly powerless, and it was becoming enough of a damn problem that he wasn’t entirely sure it was even a problem anymore.
She’d manufactured this whole event knowing her father and Raff would be playing by house rules, and she risked mages only knew what to ensure their treachery didn’t grow roots.
She’d done it for him, not to highlight his deficiencies but to cut the tyrants off at the knees, and do so in a way that didn’t incite a revolt or get someone killed.
Clara had figured out how to play the game so her opponents would have to fall back several spaces, all the while Bronze kept marching on at his assumed pace.
And he’d stormed out on her last night, with the taste of her still on his lips no less, like a tantruming teenager who was butthurt because he’d just been told he had to do his homework before he could play his four hours of video games on a weeknight.
Had there ever been a bigger asshole? He’d have to double-check with Chrome to be certain, but in that moment, he didn’t think it was possible. Gold fucking star for him.
It was Clara who made Bronze realize what was about to hit him. Her eyes growing wide with shock. Her lower lip falling open. The screams.
Then Raff’s growl came as he roared up beneath Bronze, reached over, grabbed him by the arm, and flipped him onto his back in a slam so hard it loosened Bronze’s back teeth. Before he could move, Raff crawled up his body and knelt on Bronze’s thighs, pinning him to the spot.
One tug down an arm, then another. Bronze’s screams erupted as sharp claws raked through the soft skin on the undersides of his forearms, leaving bloody calling cards in their wake.
A rounded shadow formed in front of Bronze’s vision as Raff leaned over him, blocking out the sun and bits of Bronze’s sanity. “There is only ever one end. Remember that.”
Two scraps of brown leather were tossed in the dirt at the side of Bronze’s head, all while his brain had begun to clamor in time to the crowd’s chants.
He had lost, and now he and Raff were even.
Which meant he was only one game away from breaking his promise again and losing Clara forever.