Chapter 37
Anya Delemond
Roderick’s sweet words were still humming in Anya’s head as they descended the stone steps hand in hand.
I can’t imagine life without you.
He meant it. She’d never been so sure of anyone, or anything, in her entire life.
Roderick had seen her finest and her worst, and he seemed to love her all the more for it—though that exact word hadn’t left his lips, she knew.
He dove into the frigid sea for her without a second thought, held her as she writhed in agony, a twisted princess of tooth and maw.
He’d embraced her more wholly than anyone before, revealing depths of love in her heart she’d never felt before.
And there was no going back.
The sheer weight of those words made her tremble. If she loved him, she could lose him. If she lost him, she would surely lose herself. Even unspoken, she was laying her sword at his feet and placing her heart in his palm.
But could there be a safer place?
“Watch your step,” Roderick said softly, holding her hand up as they reached the landing. Rabid, muffled cheers radiated through the cellar walls.
“I can hold my ale better than you,” she countered, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.
He chuckled. “I’m sure you can. But let me be chivalrous, just this once.”
They approached a table where an Elf with a particularly ragged-looking owl sat with a couple sheets of parchment and a glass jar filled with coins.
“Betting or participating?” she asked in a nasally voice.
“Participating,” Anya said. She wasn’t about to sit on the sidelines. She had to get her hands on a blade and burn this nervous energy before spilling everything that was bottled up in her heart.
The woman lowered her wiry spectacles. “You can’t participate like that. No shifting allowed.”
“Why does it matter? It’s blade to blade. Strength is only the half of it.”
“No blades allowed either,” the Elf said, tone flat.
Icy dread crept up Anya’s spine as realization hit.
This wasn’t swordplay.
This was fisticuffs.
Roderick pulled her aside. His strong fingers pressed into her arm, making her wonder exactly what else he could do with them.
She shook her head. Now was not the time for fantasy. They had a prize to win, and it wouldn’t be as easy as she thought. They were two of the finest swords masters in Valeria, not bar brawlers.
“I can do this,” Roderick whispered. “I can win.”
“You heard her, this isn’t swordplay. You can’t possibly win against Weres. They have to be twice as strong as you. We could steal the book, or rip out the page! By the time he notices, we’ll be—”
“Anya.” He held her gaze. “I need you to trust me. I can’t do this unless you trust me.”
The conviction in his voice did her in.
“Fine,” she muttered.
“That’s my girl,” he crooned, flashing his fangs at her. Just as quickly, he retracted them and turned to the woman.
“Roderick Bryson, Were,” he declared. The woman scrawled his name down with a wrinkled hand, then dipped the quill back in the ink pot.
“Go ahead. We’ll be starting shortly.”
The hungry shouts and cheers became crystal clear as the door thudded shut behind them. Anya blinked through the haze of peppermint smoke.
“Sven! Sven! Sven! Sven!”
“Give me ten more on Sven!”
They watched two male Elves—stags, as they learned them to be called—enter a roped-off ring in the center of the basement.
Mage lights sat atop wrought iron sconces.
Slivers of moonlight leaked through cracks near the top of the stone walls.
Folk drank while leaning or standing beside high tables, with tops made from spent barrels.
“Ladies and gentleman, does and stags, it’s time for the final stag round! It’s down to Morel Fenn of the east coast clan, and our reigning champion, Sven Lund of the river clan!”
“Knock ‘em dead, brother!”
“Don’t pull your punches! Antlers grow back!” a Were hollered.
Morel unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it into the crowd. A doe caught it and waved to him. Sven did the same, eliciting a clamor of folk from the other side.
“Same rules as before. No magic, no biting, no antler-grabbin’, and nothing below the belt. Legs are game.”
Both stags nodded, their antlers mere inches from one another, eyes deadlocked.
The ringmaster stepped back, raising both arms straight up.
“Ready?”
“Set!”
“Fight!”
The clatter of clashing antlers filled the room as the two stags grappled with their fists locked. Every muscle in their bodies strained against each other, shiny with sweat.
“Show him, Sven!”
Sven began to twist his wrists, forcing Morel to weaken his grip, then seized the opening and wrenched himself from the grapple, punching Morel in the gut.
The wind rushed out of Morel, but he recovered and charged at Sven, antlers-first. Sven dodged with an elegant low slide, sweeping a leg out to trip Morel.
Morel jumped just in time. Vulnerable and low, Morel kicked Sven in the jaw, sending him sliding back to the edge of the ring.
Sven spat blood and a tooth, then rose for another shot.
It was gritty.
It was rough.
It was incredible!
The wild energy of the crowd was infectious. Anya soon found herself as one of the many shouting, fist-pumping spectators. Who she was cheering for, she didn’t know or care. She just wanted action. It was a fraction of what she felt when she hunted as a wolf, but it was just as addicting.
She’d been so engrossed, she hadn’t noticed Roderick slip away and come back with a flagon filled to the brim with golden liquid. He was as calm as she’d ever seen him, snapping her out of the wild crowd mentality.
“I thought you may be thirsty.” He handed her the cup. “It isn’t wine. They called it punsch, I think. But it smells delicious.”
Anya thanked him and ventured a tiny sip. A spectrum of flavors danced across her tongue: cardamom, molasses, even a hint of smoke. She smacked her lips and went for a second taste.
The commotion around them swelled to a new height.
“One!”
“Two!”
Shocks of awe rang out. Anya went up on her toes to get a better view. Morel shoved Sven off him, then leapt to his feet, inciting a bloody exchange of swings. Part of Morel’s left antler was hanging by a thread.
If the Elves were this brutal, what would the Weres be like? Anya looked up at Roderick, who was stretching his neck side to side like he was about to go for a refreshing dip.
“How are you so calm?”
“Because”—he brought his lips to her ear—“whether I win or lose, a beautiful princess will tend to my wounds.”
The soft puff of breath sent a chill down her spine.
A sudden, hollow thump silenced the crowd. Sven lay motionless on the ground, pinned beneath Morel. Morel gaped for breath with strings of saliva and blood connecting his lips.
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“THAT’S MATCH!” The announcer slammed the bell with a hammer. “WE HAVE A NEW CHAMPION!”
“You did it!” The stag beside them screamed and jumped, shoving his way toward the ring.
“You’re damn right I did!” Morel leapt over the rope and mussed the stag’s hair.
Folk swarmed around the victor, hoisting him up to a chorus of cheers and claps. The announcer jumped right back into things. Behind him, a healer helped Sven limp to the sidelines.
“Next up! Rookie Weres, Roderick Bryson and Hans Ahlgren! Report to the ring in two minutes!”
Regret coiled in Anya’s gut. She could tend to Roderick’s wounds, but she wasn’t a miracle worker—though the affection in his eyes begged to differ.
“I should like a taste before I go,” Roderick said, pointedly dropping his gaze to the cup she held close to her chest.
She looked down at the cup. “Are you sure that’s—”
He silenced her with a deep, slow kiss that made sparks flicker across her skin. The cup slipped from her fingers as she melted under his touch. With a fierce tug, he pulled her flush against him, forcing their heaving chests against each other.
Anya found the buttons of his vest and shirt, working them with eager fingers.
“This has to come off anyway,” she murmured against his lips.
He didn’t protest. Flutters filled her belly as she spread the clothing apart, toying through the bristles of fiery hair on his chest. She pushed harder against him.
Her dress was torture. A damn prison. Why did people wear clothes?
Why? She couldn’t remember. Or why they were here.
Or where here was. Her cheeks flushed hot with desire, the throb between her legs growing unbearable.
She guided his strong fingers to the threads of her dress, practically begging for release, eyes around them be damned, but the bell rang, and he pulled away with a husky chuckle, leaving her reeling in a lust-drenched daze.
“I’ll finish you later,” he teased, stroking a finger under her chin. “Root for me, my furry little Princess.”
With that, he vaulted over the partition into the ring.
Appreciative whistles rang out as he stepped to the center, exchanging a sportsmanlike nod with the other fighter, Hans.
Anya had appreciated Roderick’s body in the cave, but the mage lights down here practically drenched every contour of his muscles in shadows.
Hans was a pup compared to him. Roderick cracked his knuckles and cast a devilish grin at Anya while the announcer rattled off the same rules.
“Ready?”
Roderick turned his attention to Hans.
“Set?”
“Fight!”
He let Hans make the first rush, sidestepping him as swiftly as he did when they sparred on the Lupus Star. Hans growled and whirled around, met by a fist across his jaw.
Anya gasped, clutching Roderick’s balled-up shirt to her face as Hans socked him in the gut.
Roderick stumbled back a step, held his stomach for a moment…
Then smiled.
“I’ve missed this!” he roared, trading blows with Hans.
“YES!!!” Anya howled, pumping her fist in the air. “YES!!!”