The announcer raised his hand again. “And facing him today—” A pause, the opponent’s name came next. Raveena didn’t bother to catch it. Something forgettable. A smattering of polite applause followed, but already the crowd’s attention had shifted, already their cheers were for the predator, not the prey.
The contender could have been a blacksmith’s son, a third-born noble desperate for notice, a drunk with a good punch. It didn’t matter. He was about to have his body laid flat in the snow by her wolf.
Graham stepped to the center of the ring like a man doing a chore. No grand gestures. No roaring for the crowd. Just that slow, coiled walk of someone who’d already sized up the fight and found it wanting.
The official gave the nod. The crowd leaned forward. The opponent lunged. It was over in seconds.
One feint. One pivot. One solid punch to the gut that doubled the fool over, followed by a brutal uppercut that sent him sprawling out of the ring and into the snow.
The audience gasped—then roared. Chairs scraped. Gloves clapped. Ladies squealed behind their hands. Coins changed hands as bets were collected with delighted cheers.
Graham stood over the crumpled body of his opponent. He didn’t raise his arms. Didn’t nod to the crowd. Didn't look at his queen. Just turned and walked back toward the edge of the ring like he’d taken out the trash.
The ladies' laughter shifted as the murmurs of the court shifted toward the arrival of a late guest. Snow White glided toward the royal box in her usual shade of pale blue. As always, she looked slightly out of place—like she belonged in a nursery rhyme instead of a battlefield gallery. She moved with grace but no fire.
“Running late, dear?” Raveena asked smoothly, her voice laced with frost.
Snow gave a placid smile. “A doe had trouble with her fawn. I couldn’t leave her unattended.”
Lady Charming leaned forward then, ever the stately viper. “Such care for the helpless. It speaks to your nurturing instincts, Snow. Qualities like that show you’d make an excellent mother.”
A murmur of agreement followed. Raveena caught the not-so-subtle way the older women nodded, measuring wombs as they measured power.
Before Raveena could respond, a ripple moved through the crowd as Prince Charming emerged. The sun struck the polished silver of his armor, drawing cheers from the spectators and delighted sighs from the women in the box. He had that practiced smile on, the one he used when he wanted something.
“Ladies,” he said, voice smooth as cream. “Your presence has turned this field of battle into a garden of glory.”
A few ladies fluttered like they hadn’t heard the same line from his lips a dozen times before.
“For you, my lady…” Charming turned to Snow, taking her gloved hand in his, bending to kiss her knuckles. “I shall win my next bout.”
Snow blushed—of course she did—and gave a shy, demure smile.
But then, as Charming's lips pulled away, he turned ever so slightly. And winked. At Raveena.
Raveena had to fight not to roll her eyes right then and there. Because that wink—ridiculous and arrogant and childish as it might be—meant only one thing. She was still in this game of thrones.
She could see it in Charming's smug little smirk: He thought himself clever. Thought he could bed the queen, marry the princess, and hold the loyalty of both.
Let him think he was winning. Let Snow preen like she had been chosen. Let the ladies gossip. The Winter tournament of fists and blood wasn’t the only match being played today.
Charming did win his first bout in the games. It wasn't as quick as Graham's. No, the prince drew it out, playing with this opponent. It was all for show. And at the end, he blew a kiss to the princess and gave another lascivious look to the queen.
Yes, he was definitely playing the two of them. Hmm, the kid might be smarter than Raveena gave him credit for. But she saw the board from many angles. And unlike her two naïve opponents, she would adjust her strategy accordingly.
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.
