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 aget the fuck outglare from over my shoulder.
Zilo’s serious attention slides from me to Ravar and then back again.
A slightwhat in the High Hell are you doingsort 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 oneseems 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 distractinglybeautiful.
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.
