Chapter 53 House of Jester Night #2
We know what happened to Aunt Ruth. They do not take punishments lightly, in fact, it’s another added element to their performance. And I’d never forgive myself if Sapphire lost the ability to walk because I refused a challenge.
“We’ll put on a good show for them, okay?” I say low enough for only her ears.
Sapphire gulps. “Okay.”
A Vexamen slayer sword is tossed to me. Double bladed, heavier than the average but light enough that I can still hold it with one hand. The hilt is wrapped in a red leather, so worn it looks scorched.
Sapphire has a curved scimitar sword, crafted to sever tendons with a single swipe. It’s a dancer’s weapon, merciless and swift—the kind of sword that was forged in a desert, fought under many days of drought and burning suns.
I sigh in relief as that sword type has been proven to be light enough for her, especially now as she’s most likely lost a lot of muscle mass from being starved in the asylum.
The stadium sings a battle cry as I assume the fight is supposed to begin.
We side-step around the ring, testing the weight of our weapons and the balance it takes to maneuver them comfortably.
There’s a silent agreement that we will make our moves as predictable as possible without alerting the Ringmaster that we’re simply putting on a performance for their liking.
No one gets hurt. It will just be a damn good duel.
“I guess they really did find the one inmate in this prison who could keep up with me,” I comment with an inviting grin.
Sapphire makes a face. “More than keep up.”
I move so quickly the first few rows of inmates around the stage go quiet, and normally, I would have caught my opponent completely off guard. This slash of my blade would have created a gaping wound across their collarbone.
But Sapphire is just as fast as she blocks it with such little effort, I can’t help but blink in amazement.
Sapphire
Everything. Fucking. Hurts.
The strain on my weak, feeble muscles from blocking his first blow is enough to make me black out. But thankfully, the nerves from fighting on full display gives me a surge of blood pumping into my muscles and joints that I desperately need to keep up with this man.
I’ve only jousted with a scimitar once, but it was fairly easy to wield. The torchlight catches glimmers along the crescent edge. But Niklaus’s sword is built for far more damage. It’s a predator’s claw against a god’s blade.
As the fight begins, I focus on my footwork because each of his calculated strikes drive me backward. Sparks spit where steel collides. And I meet his advances in quick fragments, darting around him like lightning, redirecting and deflecting.
The sharp tip of his weapon zings through the air with obscene precision.
I can see it in his eyes. Each move is measured to miss me by an inch.
Even if I stopped fighting back, his strikes would never touch my skin.
That mastery that so many have praised him for in our years of training…
it’s all being used to ensure I don’t get hurt.
With a speedy glance, I notice the Ringmaster lean forward on his podium, seemingly unimpressed at the lack of gore.
My scimitar slices the air a breath away from his ribs, but my hand falters before I can hurt him. And it all has the audience jeering, spitting, howling for more. For someone to get hurt.
“You’re going to have to rough me up a bit, Spitfire,” he says in a low enough pitch to avoid any other ears.
I dodge the swing of his double blade as it zooms over my head.
Out of breath with sweat dripping down my back, I say, “No.”
“They won’t let us stop unless they see some blood.”
“No,” I cough out, blocking his downward swing and holding his weight above my chest as we meet an inch away from each other.
“I know you’re good enough not to actually hurt me too bad. Okay? I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
I grunt, shaking my head again.
He gives me an annoyed glare. “Wouldn’t you like to nick me just once? Since I’m going to do everything in my power to stop you from changing the future and saving your dad?”
A second wind floods my core, recharging my veins with a lethal rage that blinds me, controls my next movements, and brings tears to my eyes.
“Over my fucking dead body.” I throw my weight into my next advance, drawing a nice, clean cut across his bicep.
Niklaus smirks, bowing his head in approval.
“Very good.”
I peer up at the Ringmaster, curling his upper lip in disgust. Though he barks something to his audience of restless soldiers, and they fall into a fit of drunk laughter.
“Again,” Niklaus orders, following the same context clues I’m piecing together.
Still not enough.
I huff, groan, then side-step his next jab at me.
I cut the edge of my foot on his razor edge on purpose as I use my heel to kick it away.
With his core vulnerable, I slice into his stomach.
The swipe is so fast, so unexpected, Niklaus growls.
Both at the sudden sharp pain, but also at the dripping blood coming off my foot and onto the stage floor.
But I need to bleed too. It’s an artificial wound meant to give them a scene bloodier than it actually is. The scarlet red smears across the floor, enough to form a noticeable obstacle for me as I keep my feet moving to maintain agility.
I search the sentinels for any sign that someone is going to stop the fight.
But there is no end near.
“You are a selfish little girl, Spitfire.” An unnerving amount of blood streams from Niklaus’s stomach, pooling over his waistline and saturating the fabric. “You’d jeopardize both of our families’ futures just to warn a man who was criminally insane!”
At this point, I cannot tell if he’s only saying these things to provoke me.
It’s enough that his eyes gleam with a hateful truth burning through his pupils.
I bite down, tossing my sword from my right hand to the left, and slash at one side of his chest. The attack is harsher than I intended, and he groans at the skin being ripped open.
Those oceanic eyes darken.
Niklaus’s attacks are even harder to fend off as I’m out of breath. My lungs burn. My hands tremble. My pulse stutters like a flame being snuffed out.
At some point, I can’t keep up with my feet stumbling back. I’m too tired to provide well-orchestrated footwork or agile maneuvers. Each of his strikes hurt my joints and blister into my bones. And I fall back, head thumping against the stage.
Niklaus cages me to the floor with his body, throwing his sword down against mine.
I don’t even know how I’m managing to hold my weapon to his, with his weight and strength pressurizing against my shaking arms. But here I am.
Teeth gritting together. Hands going numb.
Eyes welling with tears. Sweat glistening across every inch of skin.
“Are you submitting to me, dear wife?” His deep murmur glazes over my skin.
I’m too beaten down to offer any fight left.
“I can’t—I’m so tired.”
Drops of blood splatter from Niklaus’s arm, chest, and stomach to the floor around me and onto my body huffing and puffing under his hold.
He scans the audience, sweeping over the countless rows of individuals observing us, then to the Ringmaster who has not budged.
There’s a set of gears that rotate in his head, and for several seconds I adversely feel safe under the security of his body guarding mine. I can breathe. I can catch my breath.
Cheering. Stomping. Clapping.
Niklaus drops his gaze back down to me.
Flames soar behind his head.
And he looks absolutely stripped of words.
“Niklaus…”
“I’m not going to hurt you, Sapphire.”
With that, he holds his breath, scoops his hands along the side of my face, and kisses me.
It’s careful, restrained, and cautious. But as the noise dies beyond this safe place on the platform, I soften my tired, defensive posture.
I open up for him. My legs part, letting his hips lower between my thighs.
He pauses to pull away, lifting those dark lashes to get a good look at me.
And his head dips down again, taking my lips, my tongue, and melting his frame into my own.
It’s like being underwater and caught in a thunderstorm without shelter all at once.
It could be the delirium. The exhaustion. The malnutrition.
But my heart jumps into motion. Warmth washes over my legs and lower belly.
Everything is doused with white-hot flames.
And I can’t imagine wanting anyone else.
The taste of his tongue as it slips into my mouth.
His familiar scent. The way I’d know the texture of his skin if I were blind and falling into a deep sleep.
We fight to deepen the kiss, pulsing with desire and uncontained lust.
The euphoria is drenching the good sense I have to stop. But I can’t. I want him so badly, I’d have sex with him right now, on this stage, in front of everyone. My legs spread wider, and his growl vibrates against my lips.
If Niklaus wasn’t on top of me, everyone would see how much I need him. They’d see my red uniform darkened as I grow soaking wet. I writhe against his hard cock, rubbing against my clit.
But a brazen gust of air hits me. An empty space takes Niklaus’s place. He’s torn from my arms. He’s pushed to stand at the edge of the stage.
“I will not hurt my wife!” Niklaus yells, flipping off the Ringmaster.
The inmates combust into a bout of complaints, crying, screaming, begging, trying to run. And the Ringmaster looks downright pleased with this decision. He tips his tall black hat to Niklaus, the crow’s feet around his eyes creasing into dark lines as he beams at us.
Jack’s voice barely rises above the ongoing commotion.
“They’re going to take it out on all of us!” He forms a funnel around his mouth with his hands. “Join Sophia!”
I prop myself up on my elbows, staring at Jack in confusion.