That would have been fine. Graham would have ignored the bout like he'd ignored the others. But the fool went and did the one thing Graham could never let slide.
Charming turned ever so slightly—just enough so no one else would notice—and shot a wink toward Raveena.
Graham noticed. He noticed everything about his queen.
He noticed that her posture was impeccable, as always. But he caught the tension in her shoulders, the slight shift in her weight. The cushion beneath her must’ve been worn thin because she kept favoring her right side, adjusting every few minutes like the seat had betrayed her spine.
He noticed her wine goblet resting untouched on the arm of her throne. She’d sipped once, early on, then wrinkled her nose so slightly it might’ve been mistaken for a twitch. Clearly, the vintage wasn’t to her liking.
And that girl chattering behind Raveena’s shoulder? Every time the woman spoke, a flicker of irritation passed over Raveena’s face, a micro-expression that anyone else might’ve missed. Anyone except him. Raveena never tolerated simpering. If the girl was still sitting there, it was only because Raveena needed something from her. Some piece of gossip, a promise, a pawn.
He noticed that she caught the princeling's wink. She gave no outward sign that she noticed. But Graham knew, and it made his fists clench.
Not because the wink was bold. Not because it was shameless. Because he knew exactly what that wink meant.
The prince thought that she was still his.
Like hell she was.
Graham turned, jaw grinding, and called out to the other soldiers gathered around him.
“Let the prince win.”
They blinked at him. One soldier’s brows drew together, eyes darting to the ring as if he’d misheard. Another grimaced, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade like it itched to be used instead. A third exchanged a glance with his companion, a frown carved deep between his eyes. Confusion rippled through the group like a stone dropped in still water.
“Let him win?" Corwin spoke each word carefully, as though said again would reveal the true meaning. "You’ve seen him fight. He hits like a snowflake.”
Another man snorted. “We could all take him down with one hand tied and the other holding a drink.”
“But you’re going to lose anyway,” Graham said.
A pause. Glares. Then, in unison—“Why?”
“Because I want him. He’s mine.”
That earned some raised brows and a few chuckles.
“Can I at least make him bleed?” Corwin asked.
Graham shrugged.
“Fine.” Corin rubbed the back of his neck. “But you’re buying every damn round tonight.”
“Top shelf,” Graham agreed.
That got them moving. Over the next hour, one by one, the soldiers entered the ring. One by one, they fell. Not believably, not really—staggering after light blows, crumpling like sacks of flour. The crowd, drunk and eager for drama, didn’t question it. They cheered, laughed, called out encouragements.
The prince played his part perfectly. He grinned broader with each “victory,” arms raised like a boy playing at hero.
When the match was called, the soldiers rose from the snow and stumbled out of the arena, still playing their parts. Until they got to Graham. That's when they shot Graham sharp glares—equal parts begrudging respect and irritation. He’d owe them more than their weight in drinks after this.
Graham didn’t care. Because in one heartbeat, everything shifted. His gaze lifted—he hadn’t meant to, had been avoiding it all day—but it found her.
Raveena reclined in her seat like a goddess carved from ebony and ivory, dark gown curling around her legs like mist. Her lips were red, her eyes unreadable, and when their eyes met across the snow-packed arena, the world narrowed.
She saw him. She saw everything.
The crooked choreography. The sudden rise of the prince. The deliberate shaping of the bracket so that Graham would meet Charming one on one.
