Chapter 8 #2
To my horror, he smirks and raises his glass to me. Before Thorian can see this little exchange, I bury myself in my food, not looking up again until I’m sure the moment has passed.
Eventually, I allow myself to look around again, carefully avoiding the table of vampires. Instead, my gaze catches on a pair seated closer to ours. They must be partners, like Thorian and me.
My attention settles on one of them, and for reasons I can’t begin to explain, I find myself unable to look away.
He’s tall, tall enough that I can tell that, even when he’s sitting, though not quite as imposing as Thorian, and dressed in the simple clothes of a commoner.
At first glance, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about him.
No polished armor. No display of wealth or status.
Only a worn, fully unbuttoned tunic stretched across broad shoulders and a modest bow slung across the back of his chair.
And yet there is something about him.
His curls are a deep copper red, falling untidily around his face and brushing the tops of his ears.
Beneath them, striking green eyes study the room with quiet caution, thoughtful and alert.
They’re not the hard eyes of a seasoned killer, nor the cold calculation I've glimpsed in so many of the other competitors.
They’re warm. Earnest. Eyes that seem entirely out of place in a competition built on bloodshed.
My gaze drifts lower, catching on the solid breadth of his chest, the strength in his forearms, the easy promise of power in the body beneath those plain clothes. It doesn’t make sense. A man built like that should feel intimidating. Instead, he stirs a strange, impossible curiosity.
He doesn’t seem human.
But he doesn’t feel like anything I know how to name, either.
“A berserker,” Thorian says, leaning over and whispering in my ear, so his heady oakmoss scent envelopes me. I also catch the slightest whiff of wine on his breath, and that makes me wonder if his mouth also tastes of the wine. The stray thought makes it take a second too long to process his words.
“What?” I ask, turning to him, my eyes going wide. “How do you know?”
Thorian shrugs, keeping his eyes on the teams, speaking to me almost from the side of his mouth as he continues to cut at the meat on his plate.
“Many things. Notice the clothes. They’re cheap and very loose.
Those are the rags of a man who’s used to ripping his own to shreds.
There’s also something about their bodies that I’ve come to recognize.
They’re always far larger than the average human, but they don’t look like people who work for their strength, perhaps because they don’t need to do a thing to be powerful in their monster form. ”
Monster feels a bit extreme to me, but I don’t voice that opinion.
Among all the men and supernaturals around us, there’s only one other woman.
I’m guessing they allowed her in after I entered.
The sight of her does little to comfort me.
She’s clearly a shifter, built as thick and broad as many of the men surrounding her.
Her blonde hair is cropped short above her ears in a severe cut, and she tears into a turkey leg with wild abandon, swinging it as she talks and making no effort to wipe the grease from her chin.
That is a woman raised for this.
I glance down at my lap, at the napkin folded neatly there out of habit, and swallow against the heavy certainty that I do not belong here.
I’m the smallest contender in the room by a mile. The next smallest is a slender man seated several tables away, but even he has at least a foot of height on me and far more visible muscle.
As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, Thorian’s voice cuts low across the table.
“After the feast, we’ll go before the gods. They’ll assess us. They may ask for demonstrations of skill. Then each team will be named, and the gods, nobles, and supernaturals will place their bets.”
My stomach tightens.
I can already imagine it.
Valtor’s booming laughter. The cold amusement in the eyes of the other gods. Their sharp little comments about the absurdity of someone like me standing among real competitors.
They will look at me and see exactly what I fear I am. A fragile noblewoman trying to survive a world she was never meant for. And no matter what they say, no matter how cruel or amused they might be, I’ll have to stand there with my head held high and bear it.
The thought is suddenly suffocating.
I reach for my wine and drain the rest in one swallow.
When I lower the goblet, Thorian is watching me too closely, his dark gaze fixed on my face as though he can somehow see every frantic thought careening through my mind. My breath catches, and I hate myself for it.
Before he can say anything, I push back from the table and rise to my feet.
“I’d like another roll,” I say, though our table remains laden with food.
The excuse is pitiful, but it’s all I can manage. The truth is that I need space. Space from the crushing weight of what’s coming. Space from the scrutiny of the gods. Space from this man who makes my thoughts unravel entirely too easily.
Though the food has been picked over for hours, it still looks abundant and perfectly arranged, an easy trick for the gods. I try not to think about how simple it’d be for them to feed my people, and instead reach for a roll.
When I do, my hand bumps another’s.
“My apologies,” I whisper, and when I look up, it’s into the green eyes of the man, the berserker, Thorian and I were just talking about.
“These rolls are too good,” the man says, his gaze holding mine as he reaches for one and drops it onto my plate. “I worry they are trying to fatten us up before the competition.”
Without thinking, my eyes drop down to his abdomen, which is fully visible through the large, open shirt he wears.
His chest is well-defined, his muscles tightening as he shifts his weight, and my fingers itch to reach out and graze over them, feel their warmth.
I only barely keep myself from muttering, You haven’t anything to worry about.
Instead, I say, “I worry the feast will be over before I’m ready to stop eating.”
That draws a laugh from him, low and easy. “We share that fear.”