“Kill her!”
“End her!”
My left hand clenches around the silver bonding mark that Reaper left on me. At the same time, my demon wolves let out a howl that sends a new ripple of shouts through the crowd.
My breathing is suddenly rapid, and I take deep breaths to control it, forcing myself to calm down.
Crone made the rules clear. To win, I have to kill this wolf. I have to end a creature that looks just like Reaper, whom I’m bonded to. Not only that, but I have to watch the other royals kill her—if they can—over and over again.
Even more than that—Reaper is the beast who supported my father. It doesn’t escape me that if Arga kills her, it will appear as if he’s stronger than his father.
I grit my teeth and remind myself that this wolf isn’t real—it’s just a conjuring. Even if it looks real, and even if it could kill me in the combat ring. I didn’t fight against the real Reaper to understand the true extent of her strength, but I have no guarantees that the version of her that Crone conjures for me will match her strength. It could be stronger. And in fact… Crone could vary the strength of each version of Reaper to kill or be killed by the royals.
Judging by the paleness of their faces as they stare at the conjured wolf, the other royals don’t expect Crone to go easy on them.
Crone smiles at me, her colorless lips twitching, a cruel happiness. “Let’s see how strong Reaper is against Arga, the heir to Mortem’s throne.”
Inside the cage, Arga points his dagger at me, snarling across the distance. “Nothing you love is safe from me, little sister.”
I become like stone, my features smoothing out as every elite demon in the audience sneers at me. There’s only one whose thoughts really matter to me, and I sense Roman’s presence drawing closer behind me, catch the flare of a rune at the corner of my eye. He doesn’t form an object or attack anyone, but the light is calming and a sense of peace fills me again.
I also distinguish the soft growls from my demon wolves as they press forward at the corner of my vision. Their eyes are bright as they fixate on Reaper’s image. Ace is at the apex of the rough triangle they form, his growls the loudest. Presumably, the conjured Reaper won’t smell like their mother, so I’m not sure of the extent to which her appearance will upset them.
Roman murmurs to my wolves, and I make out enough of the ancient demon language to understand that he’s reminding them this is not their mother.
That’s when Ace snarls up at me, an aggressive sound—the sound he would make before we went hunting demons in Vegas. It tells me to fight my opponent without mercy—no matter whom she resembles.
It’s the final calming I need to remain in my seat and conceal my inner feelings from Arga and Crone. If they wanted a big reaction from me, they’re going to be disappointed.
Arga’s smile only grows, but he quickly focuses on the wolf, who has taken complete form in the cage now, standing as high as his waist.
They circle each other, the conjured Reaper’s teeth bared, while Arga draws the dagger back and forth through the air, following the direction of the wolf’s prowling.
Their fight is fast and full of fury.
Arga leaps first, his roar echoing around us. His powerful body collides with the conjured wolf, one hand driving up under her chin, pushing her powerful head to the side so she can’t bite him while he rams the dagger into her shoulder, avoiding her claws at the same time.
He’s powerful, fast, and strong.
He pulls the blade out in a spray of blood.
The wolf spins, limping a little, but she hasn’t uttered a single whimper. With a snarl, she leaps back at him, her claws outstretched, slashing at him furiously.
Arga stabs at her right front paw, spinning and slashing through her left leg before driving his fist into her neck and the dagger into her other shoulder, leaving it there this time. He propels her backward, maintaining the contact between them as he bashes her against the metal mesh around the side of the cage, his movements becoming faster and stronger.
He must be feeding on her pain.
Wrenching her above his head, he drops to a knee and smashes her down over it.
Crack!Her back breaks.
It all happens so fast that I’ve barely taken a breath.
He shoves the wolf off his knee onto the mat, where she lies, still breathing, but he looms over her, pressing his flat palm against her chest. The dagger juts from her shoulder and he makes no move to remove it.
While his palm is pressed against her, he tips his head back, his eyes closing, a sick smile lighting up his face.
“Misery is sweet,” he says, a whisper that I wouldn’t be able to hear except that the crowd is deathly silent now. Even a few of the elite demons who called for Reaper’s blood have shrunk into their seats. If Arga becomes their ruler, it must now be sinking in that they’ll be in for a world of pain.
