Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was late in the day, and Graham was already bored and regretting his decision to fight today. Not a single one of his matches had satisfied his bloodlust. How could they when they were over before the second punch?
The sun hung low over the tournament grounds.
From his place near the edge of the arena, Graham stood motionless, arms crossed, breath curling in slow, steady puffs.
The crowd buzzed behind him—layers of fur and wine and idle chatter—but he heard none of it.
His focus narrowed to the man stepping into the ring.
Graham watched the princeling the way a wolf watches prey—still, silent, patient.
Charming moved like a show pony in a gilded bridle, tossing smiles to the crowd.
His grip on his sword was too relaxed. His stance was all flair and no balance.
Footwork too wide. Left side overexposed.
Confidence bleeding through the cracks of ignorance.
Prince Charming made fighting look pretty, but it was clear to a trained warrior's eyes that the boy was weak. Graham saw the break in the tree line. The soft underbelly. The moment before the pounce. Charming strutted around the ring, grinning like a cat who thought himself a lion.
The prince made a show of unstrapping his cloak and rolling his shoulders. The crowd cheered, especially the younger nobles. The Ladies’ Box stirred with polite interest. Charming soaked in every bit of it, preening, glancing up with a smirk that Graham wanted to wipe clean off his face.
Charming blew a kiss toward Snow, who offered him a demure smile, soft and sweet. The crowd cooed.
That would have been fine. Graham would have ignored the bout like he'd ignored the others. But the fool went and did the one thing Graham could never let slide.
Charming turned ever so slightly—just enough so no one else would notice—and shot a wink toward Raveena.
Graham noticed. He noticed everything about his queen.
He noticed that her posture was impeccable, as always. But he caught the tension in her shoulders, the slight shift in her weight. The cushion beneath her must’ve been worn thin because she kept favoring her right side, adjusting every few minutes like the seat had betrayed her spine.
He noticed her wine goblet resting untouched on the arm of her throne. She’d sipped once, early on, then wrinkled her nose so slightly it might’ve been mistaken for a twitch. Clearly, the vintage wasn’t to her liking.
And that girl chattering behind Raveena’s shoulder?
Every time the woman spoke, a flicker of irritation passed over Raveena’s face, a micro-expression that anyone else might’ve missed.
Anyone except him. Raveena never tolerated simpering.
If the girl was still sitting there, it was only because Raveena needed something from her.
Some piece of gossip, a promise, a pawn.
He noticed that she caught the princeling's wink. She gave no outward sign that she noticed. But Graham knew, and it made his fists clench.
Not because the wink was bold. Not because it was shameless. Because he knew exactly what that wink meant.
The prince thought that she was still his.
Like hell she was.
Graham turned, jaw grinding, and called out to the other soldiers gathered around him.
“Let the prince win.”
They blinked at him. One soldier’s brows drew together, eyes darting to the ring as if he’d misheard.
Another grimaced, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade like it itched to be used instead.
A third exchanged a glance with his companion, a frown carved deep between his eyes.
Confusion rippled through the group like a stone dropped in still water.
“Let him win?" Corwin spoke each word carefully, as though said again would reveal the true meaning. "You’ve seen him fight. He hits like a snowflake.”
Another man snorted. “We could all take him down with one hand tied and the other holding a drink.”
“But you’re going to lose anyway,” Graham said.
A pause. Glares. Then, in unison—“Why?”
“Because I want him. He’s mine.”
That earned some raised brows and a few chuckles.
“Can I at least make him bleed?” Corwin asked.
Graham shrugged.
“Fine.” Corin rubbed the back of his neck. “But you’re buying every damn round tonight.”
“Top shelf,” Graham agreed.
That got them moving. Over the next hour, one by one, the soldiers entered the ring.
One by one, they fell. Not believably, not really—staggering after light blows, crumpling like sacks of flour.
The crowd, drunk and eager for drama, didn’t question it.
They cheered, laughed, called out encouragements.
The prince played his part perfectly. He grinned broader with each “victory,” arms raised like a boy playing at hero.
When the match was called, the soldiers rose from the snow and stumbled out of the arena, still playing their parts. Until they got to Graham. That's when they shot Graham sharp glares—equal parts begrudging respect and irritation. He’d owe them more than their weight in drinks after this.
Graham didn’t care. Because in one heartbeat, everything shifted. His gaze lifted—he hadn’t meant to, had been avoiding it all day—but it found her.
Raveena reclined in her seat like a goddess carved from ebony and ivory, dark gown curling around her legs like mist. Her lips were red, her eyes unreadable, and when their eyes met across the snow-packed arena, the world narrowed.
She saw him. She saw everything.
The crooked choreography. The sudden rise of the prince. The deliberate shaping of the bracket so that Graham would meet Charming one on one.
She was a master at games, and she knew. Instead of fury, instead of disdain, she smiled. Her eyes gleamed with amusement. Her brow arched with approval.
She didn’t care about Charming. Never had. Not the man, not his pride, not the game he thought he was playing. She wanted Graham to take him down.
And gods, that did something to him.
More than the wins. More than the coming fight. That—that look. That partnership between them.
It hit Graham low and hard, curling around his ribs and blooming in his chest like a crack in the ice across a pond. Because this—this was what he wanted. Not just her body, not just her pleasure, not even her crown.
He wanted her alongside him. Matching his stride. Plotting with him. Fighting beside him.
They were dangerous alone. But together? They could rule the world.
He stepped toward the ring, eyes on the prize. It was no longer about revenge or pride. It was about her.
The crowd pulsed around the ring, a tide of anticipation and frostbitten breath rising in a roar as Graham stepped into the ring.
The packed snow thinned by the blood and sweat of matches already won.
The cold barely registered against his skin.
The sting in his knuckles had long since faded.
He’d climbed the bracket like a storm tearing through shutters.
No opponent had lasted more than a few heartbeats.
Now the crowd wanted a finale. Now they wanted a show. And Graham? He hadn’t decided whether they’d get one.
Across from him, Prince Charming paced with a smirk painted across his face. His golden hair too polished. His armor unnecessarily gleaming. He moved like a man who’d never taken a hit that mattered.
“They call you the wolf,” Charming said, tossing a lazy shoulder roll, his voice just loud enough for only Graham to catch.
Graham didn’t respond. He simply stared.
Charming chuckled, cocky as ever. “The wolf who hides under the queen’s bed. She has a nice thread count, doesn’t she? The antlers of her headboard are an excellent grip for a man to brace himself as he takes her.”
Ah. So the fight would be quick.
The whistle blew. Charming surged forward with all the grace of a dancing rooster. His first punch came fast but not sharp. Graham sidestepped without effort, his eyes never leaving the prince’s.
Charming blinked. Then tried again.
This time, Graham let the punch land. The prince’s fist caught him on the cheek. His head barely turned. The crowd gasped. Corwin was right. The boy hit like a snowflake.
Graham’s eyes narrowed, cold and amused.
Charming gulped.
What followed wasn’t a match. It was a lesson.
Blow after blow came—each one weaker than the last, each one a study in desperation.
Graham moved through them like smoke through fingers.
Sometimes he let them land just to prove how little they mattered.
He didn’t even lift his hands. Because this boy—this spoiled, soft-palmed peacock—was nothing.
This was the man Raveena might marry? This was who the court thought worthy of ruling beside her? She’d eat him alive.
And that was the point.
That’s why she wanted him. Because he was easy. Like the old king. Like every man before Graham who had mistaken the gift of Raveena’s body for her power and her crown for her, a love she would never give them.
They were never strong enough to hold her. But Graham? He didn’t want to hold her. He wanted to stand beside her. And that meant playing the long game.
Charming swung again, sloppy and winded. But it connected.
Graham took one slow breath. Then he sank—first to one knee, then the other. The cold bit through his trousers. He placed one hand to the ground, curled his fingers into the ice-packed dirt, and tapped once.
The crowd froze. The roar died. Even the wind seemed to pause.
The official stepped forward, stunned. “The Wolf… taps out? Victory to Prince Charming.”
Silence.
Charming raised his arms, confused but grinning, looking around like maybe he’d earned something.
The crowd was slow to cheer. But they did. How could they not with those golden good looks that should clearly best a dark beast like Graham on his knees?
Graham's eyes found her. Raveena was still seated in the Ladies’ Box, lips parted in surprise. Then they pursed in mounting anger. She was pissed. His queen wasn't used to being outmaneuvered.