Bronc added, “I’ll serve as first. That means if Menace gets hit with something dirty—poison, spell, whatever—I’m allowed to intervene if the Council agrees it’s not fair play.”
“And if they don’t agree?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Then we burn the place down and run.”
A ripple of nervous laughter went around the table, but it died quick. The mood was a wire pulled tight, waiting to snap.
“Juliet and I have practiced a new thing,” Bronc said. “We can communicate through the mate bond. Actual words now—not just feelings. If anything is off, I’ll get it to her, and she’ll relay it to you.” He looked at me, eyes clear and direct. “Nothing will get past us, Savannah. Not this time.”
Menace’s hand slid over mine, calloused fingers curling tight. “If I go down, you run. No heroics.”
I didn’t answer. He knew the truth—if he died, I’d never leave.
King Rafe stood, flattening his palms on the table. “The challenge is at six. Once it starts, no one can help. You can scream, you can cry, but no one will listen. The only rule is: last man standing.”
Menace nodded. “That’s all I need.”
Lucia stood, drained her glass, and set it down with a click. “Time to get ready, da? No one wants to see my father cry if you lose.”
Juliet closed her notebook. “We’ll meet at the cars in two hours. Don’t be late.”
As everyone filtered out, Menace caught my elbow and pulled me close. “You scared?”
“Of course I’m scared,” I said. “I just look better in black.”
He kissed the top of my head, lips lingering. “Stay alive, Red. That’s all you have to do.”
I watched the others go. The house was suddenly too big, too quiet, like an abandoned church after the congregation had given up hope. The maps and plans were already obsolete—by this time tomorrow, we’d be either dead or kings.
I pressed my hand to the Iron Valor patch on my chest, felt my heart kick beneath it.
One more hour. One more shot.
I’d never been more ready for anything in my life.
They said to meet in the foyer at 2:45, and when I stepped into the hall at 2:43, everyone was already there, down to the second. The Iron Valor men in black suits with pressed collars and hands fidgeting at their sides. Juliet and Lucia flanked me, both in their best approximation of “funeral-wear”—Juliet in severe navy, Lucia in a velvet black maxi with a high neck and a Russian cross at her throat. Menace had traded his sweats for slacks and a thin cashmere shirt, the kind that clung to every ridge of muscle and made him look like he’d just stepped out of a torture scene. He had that shine in his eye: the one that came right before a gunfight, or maybe a wedding.
Rafe and Bronc conferred with the drivers in the driveway, surrounded by five black SUVs. The cars were already running, little clouds of exhaust ghosting in the December air. The cold was biting, but the adrenaline running through my system made it feel like the surface of the sun.
When Bronc saw me, he stopped mid-sentence, mouth twitching. “You ready, Savannah?”
“Ready or not, we’re doing this, so I’d say I’m ready,” I said, and he grinned, proud and sad.
We piled into the cars, men up front, women in the back. Menace tucked me under his arm, thigh pressed hard against mine. The car smelled of cologne and upholstery and the faint, coppery tang of impending violence. We didn’t talk; we just held each other, and I matched my breathing to his heartbeat.
The ride lasted exactly fourteen minutes, but it felt like a parade into the unknown. We rode in silence, staring out at the frosted fields, the leafless trees, the clouds gathering at the horizon in long, pastel-colored lines. Every few miles we passed a checkpoint: more black SUVs, bored-looking Council police with sunglasses and earpieces, dogs bristling at the ends of their leashes. The closer we got to the estate, the more it felt like a siege.
The arena was visible from a mile away, a white scar on the earth shining under the winter sky. It looked like a mausoleum or a stadium built for gladiators—massive, square, the windows all mirrored. There were already cars lined up along the access road, a procession of royalty and hangers-on here to watch someone die. I thought of how they must have this place glamoured so the human world didn’t notice it.
The SUV slid up the ramp and into a gated lot beneath the building. We stopped at a security booth, where a vampire in a three-piece suit checked our badges and then bowed his head, just enough to show respect but not enough to admit fear.
“Good luck,” he said, and Menace’s eyes flashedgold.
Inside the structure, it was colder. The air smelled of bleach and concrete, and our footsteps echoed in the long hallway that led from the garage to the inner sanctum. The Council had gone all-out: everything was sterilized, security guards stood at every intersection, and there were cameras every ten feet, tiny red lights blinking in the corners of the ceiling. The corridors twisted, a labyrinth designed to make escape impossible.
A Council escort—a witch with blue hair and a voice like crushed ice—led us down a staircase and through two sets of reinforced doors. On the far side was a locker room, cinderblock walls, a row of battered wooden benches, and a single full-length mirror. The door out to the arena was already propped open, and I could hear the low roar of the crowd, like the pulse of a dying god.
Menace sat and pulled off his boots, moving with the efficiency of a soldier. He stripped to the waist, baring his scars and the tattoo that ran down his back: the Iron Valor wolf, jaws open, eyes red, fur inked with the names of every man he’d lost in battle. He caught my eye in the mirror, and for the first time, he looked afraid.
