Chapter Eight
Fenric
T he end of the day tastes like sweat and iron on my tongue, and I’ve never felt more alive.
My muscles ache in the best way. I’ve earned every bruise and scratch decorating my hide. The other warriors slap my back and grunt their congratulations, which in Minotaur-speak is basically poetry. I smirk, rolling my shoulders, soaking in the glory.
“Three matches. Three wins,” Rovan grins, tossing me a flask. “Still the youngest champion in the ring.”
“What can I say?” I flash him a grin and take a drink. “I excel at looking good and not dying.”
The others laugh, and I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—green velvet, swaying hips, a pouty mouth. Trouble .
Bridget.
“You were impressive today, Fenric,” she purrs. “You’ll be even more so tomorrow. Here.” She holds out a pale green ribbon. “My favor. For luck.”
I look down at it, then back up at her and grin like the rake I am. “That’s generous, Bridget. But, I’m waiting for someone else’s favor.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, even as her eyes go flat. “Please tell me it's not that skittish little thing from Havenmoor? The dark- haired one? She looked like she was going to faint before the first round.”
I chuckle, but it’s cold this time. I take a step toward her, just enough to remind her who I am beneath the charm. “If I were you, I’d choose my next words carefully.”
Bridget’s mouth tightens, and her eyes flash with rejection. It’s only for a second before she smirks.
“You’ll tire of the meek ones eventually. When you do, you’ll remember what it’s like to be challenged.” She flicks the ribbon toward me anyway. “Keep it,” She says with disdain. “You’ll need all the luck you can get.”
I catch the ribbon mid-air without looking at it, my grin not reaching my eyes.
“Did you miss the part when I was undefeated today?” I ask lazily. “Nobody who challenges me wins, Bridget. Not out there-” I nod toward the arena, “and definitely not here.”
She sneers at me, but finally turns and walks away without another word.
“You’re insane,” a voice mutters behind me.
I turn and see one of the other Bulls watching Bridget’s retreating backside with appreciation. He lets out a low whistle. “You just turned that down?”
I slap the ribbon to his chest with a grin. “Be my guest.”
I don’t hear his response; my eyes are already scanning the crowd again, looking for one face.
One girl. I don’t see her, and my chest sinks a little as I make my way toward the raised platform where Dakar and the visiting Commander stand, deep in conversation.
I catch the end of Dakar’s chuckle as I approach.
“Well done, Fenric,” Dakar nods. “You’ve given the crowd a fine show.”
The other male barely looks at me. “Passable.”
I raise a brow. “Thank you, Commander. I aim to be exactly that, passable.”
Dakar makes an amused grunt.
Garron doesn’t.
Instead, he turns to Dakar and says, like I’m not standing right here , “As for the other matter, there’s no need to continue the search. I’ve seen the one I want.”
My ears flick. I don’t like the tone of that.
Garron continues, voice heavy with smugness. “The dark-skinned girl in purple. The sweet one that trembles like a rabbit. She’ll do it.”
My heart drops.
He means Annie.
“I’ll announce it at the feast tonight,” Garron says, already walking away. “Our clans will join, and I will take her as my mate.”
“You seem certain,” Dakar calls to his retreating back, arms crossed. “But you forget, she would have to accept.”
Garron glances back, brows lifting as if the idea is amusing. “A female like that doesn’t know what’s best for her. She’ll accept, once it’s made clear.”
My jaw tightens. My tail twitches once, betraying the fury brewing in my chest.
Dakar’s gaze hardens. “We don’t force our women, Garron. Not here. Not ever. If she says no, it means no.”
He gives a thin, dismissive smile and turns away fully this time, calling over his shoulder, “She won’t.”
I stare at his back, and for the first time all day, I don’t feel victorious. Because I know Annie, she’ll agree just because she doesn’t like confrontation. She may be shy and soft-spoken and sweet enough to make the Gods weep. She’s not some treaty gift or bargaining chip in a brute’s power game.
She’s Annie. My Annie.
If he even thinks about touching her without her consent?
I’ll bury him in the ring.
Favor or no favor.