She was a master at games, and she knew. Instead of fury, instead of disdain, she smiled. Her eyes gleamed with amusement. Her brow arched with approval.
She didn’t care about Charming. Never had. Not the man, not his pride, not the game he thought he was playing. She wanted Graham to take him down.
And gods, that did something to him.
More than the wins. More than the coming fight. That—that look. That partnership between them.
It hit Graham low and hard, curling around his ribs and blooming in his chest like a crack in the ice across a pond. Because this—this was what he wanted. Not just her body, not just her pleasure, not even her crown.
He wanted her alongside him. Matching his stride. Plotting with him. Fighting beside him.
They were dangerous alone. But together? They could rule the world.
He stepped toward the ring, eyes on the prize. It was no longer about revenge or pride. It was about her.
The crowd pulsed around the ring, a tide of anticipation and frostbitten breath rising in a roar as Graham stepped into the ring. The packed snow thinned by the blood and sweat of matches already won. The cold barely registered against his skin. The sting in his knuckles had long since faded. He’d climbed the bracket like a storm tearing through shutters. No opponent had lasted more than a few heartbeats.
Now the crowd wanted a finale. Now they wanted a show. And Graham? He hadn’t decided whether they’d get one.
Across from him, Prince Charming paced with a smirk painted across his face. His golden hair too polished. His armor unnecessarily gleaming. He moved like a man who’d never taken a hit that mattered.
“They call you the wolf,” Charming said, tossing a lazy shoulder roll, his voice just loud enough for only Graham to catch.
Graham didn’t respond. He simply stared.
Charming chuckled, cocky as ever. “The wolf who hides under the queen’s bed. She has a nice thread count, doesn’t she? The antlers of her headboard are an excellent grip for a man to brace himself as he takes her.”
Ah. So the fight would be quick.
The whistle blew. Charming surged forward with all the grace of a dancing rooster. His first punch came fast but not sharp. Graham sidestepped without effort, his eyes never leaving the prince’s.
Charming blinked. Then tried again.
This time, Graham let the punch land. The prince’s fist caught him on the cheek. His head barely turned. The crowd gasped. Corwin was right. The boy hit like a snowflake.
Graham’s eyes narrowed, cold and amused.
Charming gulped.
What followed wasn’t a match. It was a lesson. Blow after blow came—each one weaker than the last, each one a study in desperation. Graham moved through them like smoke through fingers. Sometimes he let them land just to prove how little they mattered. He didn’t even lift his hands. Because this boy—this spoiled, soft-palmed peacock—was nothing.
This was the man Raveena might marry? This was who the court thought worthy of ruling beside her? She’d eat him alive.
And that was the point.
That’s why she wanted him. Because he was easy. Like the old king. Like every man before Graham who had mistaken the gift of Raveena’s body for her power and her crown for her, a love she would never give them.
They were never strong enough to hold her. But Graham? He didn’t want to hold her. He wanted to stand beside her. And that meant playing the long game.
Charming swung again, sloppy and winded. But it connected.
Graham took one slow breath. Then he sank—first to one knee, then the other. The cold bit through his trousers. He placed one hand to the ground, curled his fingers into the ice-packed dirt, and tapped once.
The crowd froze. The roar died. Even the wind seemed to pause.
The official stepped forward, stunned. “The Wolf… taps out? Victory to Prince Charming.”
Silence.
