Chapter 11 Dueling Seduction
ELEVEN
DUELING SEDUCTION
Zilo explains to me that the Prince of Hell has a very elaborate morning schedule:
Fucking.
Eating.
Dueling.
Wow, maybe I should be taking notes on that complicated agenda.
And that’s why I’m lingering in the shadows of the dueling arena for his guard to take the final blow and bow out of the current match Prince Ravar is kicking his ass in. Finally—fucking finally—the guard takes a hard fall to the black soot, puffs of glittering dirt fanning up around him.
And he doesn’t get up as the Prince pins his shining onyx blade to the center of the stocky man’s burly throat.
“Good move, my Prince,” the guard comments respectfully.
A sheen of sweat trickles down his dirty brow as he holds his Prince’s stare. He swallows slowly but the blade never moves. The Prince’s smile is a cutting thing. Almost as sharp as his weapon. It should signal what comes next. But it doesn’t.
The blade hauls straight back, and with as much force as he can muster, Prince Ravar rails the metal clean through the man’s chest.
An empty breath is the only sound as the dozens of spectators watch their leader murder his own guard right before their eyes. The man’s gaze is big and terrified as he clings to the blade impaling him, and he stares up at the one person who should have his best interest at heart.
And I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking just as the shining light in his eyes fades out.
My own heart tightens, and the air in my lungs has been missing for a long moment now.
It hurts.
But I can’t pause.
I can’t stop the charade for even a second.
Because like Roman said, I’m losing. And that means I’m failing men just like this guard.
With my head held high, I stride out into the ashen arena.
Violent sunlight warms my skin from overhead.
The walls are tall and regal. I feel the attention of the royals and the kingdom above watching every step I take out toward the cruel man wiping fresh blood from his blade.
They sit in their little seats that circle the fighting space below.
We’re nothing more than animals to the ones up above.
That’s okay. You stay up there in the safety of your cushioned seats while I play with your politics like the literal wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“He wasn’t really much of an opponent,” I say with the nastiness of those words stinging my tongue.
The Prince turns, and I know the moment he really sees me. Because that sheer mating gown is finally coming in handy. He seems to note the way it clings to the flawless shape of my breasts and the nice curve of my hips.
While the men wanted me to blend in to this culture of practicality in their dark pants and worn shirts, that’s not what will get me noticed.
And I am being thoroughly fucking noticed right now.
“Good morning,” he says with a heat in his eyes I’ve seen too many times to count.
I’ve also seen the way men’s eyebrows shoot up high when I pick up a weapon. Just like his does as I pick up the dead man’s blade. I study the length of it. Not a drop of blood adorns the dark metal. Not one wound was given to the guard’s killer.
We should rectify that.
I hold the hilt in my palm in a sort of novice way that I haven’t done since I was a very small girl. I’ll admit I like to play innocent from time to time… Okay, so I like to fuck with people sometimes. Nothing wrong with that.
No one ever thinks about how sharp of a weapon deception really is. And I wield it so fucking well.
I peer up from beneath my thick lashes at the man watching me with insulting amusement in his features. “You’re a cute one,” he labels me. Cute. I’ma be so damn cute when I cut your dick from your balls.
Fucking adorable.
“Thank you, my Prince.” The smile I give him is that same innocence. “Care to go another round?” With purpose, I flop my sword around in a mock joust.
Ah, he laughs and laughs. Like a total fucking fool.
“I’d love to go a few rounds with you,” he insinuates with a rake of his gaze sliding down my frame once more.
To really stroke his ego, I appraise him right back.
I measure up all the ways he’s different from Roman.
They’re brothers, but the similarity in appearance is very vague.
The inky black hair that’s pushed back from his face is the only matching trait I can pinpoint.
And even that’s hard since Roman is shaved closely.
The gaze eating me up right now isn’t alight with energy.
It’s dark and haunting. Even his build is opposing to Roman’s tall, lithe frame.
The Prince stands just a few small inches taller than myself.
And that will make him an excellent opponent to duel this morning.
“Ready?” I ask with another haphazardly floppy cock wave of my weapon.
He smiles that amused little smirk once more at my attempt to play with men’s toys. “I won’t kill you, Cersia. I’ll be gentle with you.”
Goddess, he’s obnoxious.
This will be fun.
I smirk at him as I lift my gown to pull one leg back and position my weight to balance out the strike I’m already intending. The simple change in my stance puts a confused crease between his thick eyebrows.
It’s the most rewarding fucking look of concern.
My arm flexes as I truly take hold of the hilt of the sword and lower it until I’m ready. Until he’s ready. Fuck, he better be ready.
A rumbling murmur carries around the shadowed arena, but one voice calls out above all others. “Is everything alright here, my Prince?”
Zilo’s question doesn’t distract me, but I do take a quick moment to toss him a get the fuck out glare from over my shoulder.
Zilo’s serious attention slides from me to Ravar and then back again.
A slight what in the High Hell are you doing sort of look arches in his brow.
If it helps, I’m not wearing panties like they told me to. Damn. Be appreciative. I followed your advice. And no one seems to care. No one is slow clapping for my lack of panties right now and it’s total bullshit. Wasted effort, is what it is.
“It is more than alright, Zilo. I was just about to show Lady Cersia a move or two.” The way he licks his lips after that causes my gag reflex to wave at me from the back of my throat. I swallow the acidic sentiment down.
“Fuck,” I hear a familiar voice whisper like a threat.
I just hope Roman notices I took the panty advice. Hello. I’m fucking trying here.
“She wore the perfume,” Avian says sweetly.
Thank you!
Thank you, Avian! Goddess, would it kill the other two to notice the effort from time to time?
Anyway.
I toss my long blonde hair over my shoulder and roll my neck back and forth in a coy little way that draws the Prince’s attention back to me. Finally. Let’s get back to business.
The delicate, discreet muscles of my shoulder blades tense, my wrist poises, my entire body ever so subtly falls into place, mirroring all the training my father taught me so, so long ago.
Some things you never forget. Seven years have passed since he cheered me on to take the fight with my blade rather than my teeth.
Never rely on your hidden beast to shift.
You can only count on yourself and your ability.
And my ability, it’s fucking flawless.
I never make a move. I don’t dare reveal my hand until he’s lunging forward with a light-hearted downward arch of his blade. It’s slow but slams against mine in the softest touch of metal meeting metal.
Such a cute kiss of blades if I do say so myself.
He clearly expected the meager weight of his attack to rattle my hold on my weapon. At least, that’s what the highbrowed shock on his face is telling me.
I smile.
He hesitates.
It’s the most delicious moment of being unsuspecting, innocent, and so, so distractingly beautiful.
And then I attack.
Both hands clamp the hilt, and I fling his weight off of the shine of my blade. He staggers back, but I keep on going. I don’t pause for a single breath as I eat up the space between him and me, and he barely has a single second to react before I swing the cutting edge right back at him.
It misses his bare, sweaty chest with a whisper of air.
And that confusion in his eyes turns to erotic fury.
He smiles with alarming amusement in his gaze.
The Prince dances with me in a give and take of near fatal dips and dives of our weapons.
The danger and the adrenaline of it all exhilarates me as much as it seems to enthrall him.
His palm lingers on my lower back, heating the flesh beneath the thin gown before I twirl out of his reach once more and he’s right back on me in seconds.
It’s the strangest happiness two people have ever found in trying to murder one another.
Then, my sword flings forward once more, and the very tip of the weapon scratches the flesh of his shoulder.
A gasp of fear and surprise sounds through our audience who I had briefly forgotten. The way no one says a word but echoes their panic in that single gasp drills anxiety all through my chest. I’ve never been apprehensive of harming an opponent before.
But I’ve made a mistake.
In the thrill of the fight, I forgot my place. And I definitely forgot about the man lying dead just yards away, simply because he lost too humbly.
“Cersia,” Roman whispers on a chill of a word that I feel spoken fearfully across my skin even with the span of space separating us.
I just harmed the Prince of Hell.
And I am going to die now.
The Prince’s black orbs lift from his slight wound to meet my wide eyes. His chest rises and falls with the effort of our battle still relevant on his face.
I can’t even think in this moment.
The heavy weight of his steps billows clouds of dark smoke around his footfalls, and I’m entranced by the hellish appearance he’s creating all around him. I can’t see anything but this evil man.
He is the last face I’ll ever see before I die.
With one swift move, he brings his arm back, lifting his blade with intent.
Then he tosses it to the side, grabs the back of my neck and drags me against him.
Just as his lips crash down on mine. His kiss consumes the confusion lingering on my tongue, in my chest, in the dark depths of the back of my mind.
It isn’t sweet. It isn’t sexy.
Where his brother kissed me with so much passion, Ravar kisses me with possession. He kisses me like I’m a prop for him to use and abuse, and I know it in the simple way he devours my mouth for his own pleasure. Even as I choke on his tongue.
And he keeps right on going.
My brain catches up, and I force myself to react. I force my hands to push through his slick hair. I pull just hard enough to hear his groan against my mouth.
I react how I know he expects me to.
How everyone expects me to.
But he tastes like rancid ash. He tastes like a tormentor. Like an abuser. Like a killer.
That’s why I kiss him back too.
Because, in the end, that’s exactly why I’m here—to attract a killer.