Graham wasn't going to kill her. That had never been in the cards for him. He wasn't going to leave her either. That, her saying her vows to another man, more than any troll, had been the thing that had nearly killed him.
He had two options left. Kill the princess that stood in the way of his love keeping what she coveted most. Or kill the prince that could give her what she wanted while also standing in Graham's way.
Decisions, decisions.
Blade in hand, fury in his chest, and her scent still on his skin, Graham stormed out the door of the queen's bedroom.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The tournament grounds rang with the clash of fists and the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd. The air was bitingly cold—just how Raveena liked it. The icicles were sharp enough to sting the lungs and chase the weak indoors. Snowflakes danced like ash in the air, settling on cloaks, on helms, on the rough-hewn wood of the stands.
The sweat? That was another matter entirely.
Raveena wrinkled her nose as the musk of unwashed bodies wafted past. Men soaked in exertion and testosterone puffed up with pride as they pummeled each other like beasts in rut. Most stank of arrogance, their sweat thick and sour. Graham’s was the only scent that didn’t offend her sensibilities. The essence that wept from his body held the wild tang of pine and frost, like the wind off the Fenvalen mountains. His sweat she could breathe in like perfume. The rest? Offensive.
Animals brayed and stamped nearby—horses, hounds, even the occasional exotic mount brought in to impress the crowds. Raveena wasn’t overly fond of animals. Or the outdoors. Or men who bled on things. The stink of blood and metal and churned earth clung to everything in the arena.
Give her a civilized game played in high-backed chairs, beneath golden chandeliers, where the stakes were thrones and crowns, not bruises and broken teeth. Let others swing swords and grunt in mud; she preferred games with sharper edges—those played with smiles, silence, and secrets. Games where the prize wasn’t a battered trophy or fleeting glory but something enduring. Something eternal. Like a kingdom.
She sat atop the carved stone dais beside the other highborn women of the realm. The velvet canopy overhead filtered the morning sun into a cool blue shade. The seats were layered in furs, and goblets of spiced wine were cradled in jeweled hands.
Down below, bare-chested warriors grappled in the ring of packed snow, their bodies slick with exertion, muscles straining under the eyes of queens and princesses who watched with no pretense of modesty. Every time a man landed a blow that sent his opponent to his knees, the ladies tittered behind their gloves, gasped behind their fans.
This wasn’t about shock. It was about thrill. The bloodied knuckles, the sharp grunts, the visible power of men pitted against one another—it delighted them.
Raveena leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, her dark gown cascading around her like a pool of ink. Her gaze, cool and curious, scanned the ring—and caught.
Graham stood at the edge of the arena, shirtless, fists taped, the cold wind carving steam from his skin. Snowflakes clung to his hair and shoulders, melting into rivulets that traced the ridges of his muscles. He looked like something out of a dark forest come to steal wandering princesses away. Half-war god, half-wolf—hewn from rage and survival. Dangerous in the way only men who’d seen war and come back sharper could be.
“Is that him?” one lady whispered behind her fan.
“The Wolf of the Troll Wars,” said another, breathless. “I didn’t know he was so… large.”
Yes, Raveena thought, lips curving faintly as she turned and glared at the two women.And he’s mine. The girls were smart. They covered their mouths and averted their gazes from both Raveena and Graham.
Good. Let every queen, every daughter, every calculating heiress in the realm watch her man fight. Let them drool and plot and fantasize. But each one had better recognize that Graham Huntsman was off-limits.
He was hers.
Graham stepped into the ring, shoulders rolling, eyes narrowed in concentration. There was a quiet grace to him, even in stillness. His movements foretold of the leashed power of a man who only needed a reason to destroy.
Raveena waited. Waited for the flick of his gaze. For the glance. The acknowledgment that she was there, watching him.
Nothing.
He didn’t look at her. Not once. In fact, he prowled to the edge of the ring that was closest to her seat, and then the bastard turned and gave her his back.
Her fingers tightened on the stem of her goblet. So that was how they were going to play it? He was going to ignore her.
Her expression remained cool as she decided her next move. She would let him. Let him try, anyway. Just as she was always eager to sink to her knees when they were alone, he was always eager to find a way to get her alone.
Let him enjoy his little moment in the ring, his crowd of admirers, his noble pretense. Because after this match—win or lose—he’d come to her. And she would remind him of exactly who he belonged to.
A hush fell over the crowd as the announcer stepped into the center of the ring, his voice rising above the wintry din, clear and ceremonial.
“Representing the queen’s guard, undefeated in ten tournaments, the pride of Fenvalen, the Wolf of the Troll Wars—Graham Huntsman!”
The crowd erupted. Cheers, stomping boots, raised mugs. Raveena didn’t join in. People might know she slept with the wolf. But it would be undignified to make a spectacle of herself in public.
