The insideof the arena is enormous. A raised boxing ring stands at the center surrounded by tiered seating. Private viewing boxes line the arena from a floor above, and even higher than that is additional seating, where the ring must look minuscule. That’s where we should be sitting, considering I bought our tickets today and the match was nearly sold out. The tickets I briefly showed Dorian this morning indeed stated seats high in the rafters. However, it took only a few pockets to sift through and the most basic sleight of hand before I procured a better pair of tickets while we were standing in line.
We head for our improved seats, in one of the last rows of the first-floor tier. Shuffling past a few other patrons, we find our seats. Dorian immediately sits, but I hesitate. Now is the time to reveal the dress, but I’m not sure if I’m ready.
Dorian glances up at me. “What are you waiting for?”
I take a deep breath and start working the buttons of my coat. “I…I’m feeling warm.” It’s true, but it has nothing to do with the temperature inside the arena.
“Shouldn’t you have done that at the coatroom?” he distractedly drawls, no longer looking at me.
“Perhaps,” I say, but the truth is, I wasn’t ready to leave my coat behind when we passed the coatroom. Even now, I’m tempted to leave it on, but I committed to the stupid dress and—damn it all—I’m going to make sure he sees it.
With my buttons finally loosened, I shrug off my coat and set it on my seat.
Dorian half-rises from his seat. “What the seven hells are you wearing?”
“A dress.” My skin prickles everywhere the dress leaves bare—which are all the places Dorian is looking now. The bodice of the iridescent dress has just enough fabric to drape over each breast and doesn’t connect to the skirt until it reaches above my belly button. This makes it impossible to wear a corset with and leaves my collarbone, décolletage, and a sliver of my upper torso exposed. Dorian’s eyes bulge as he drinks me in, and I don’t know whether he’s pleased or disgusted. Either way, I can’t help but wonder what he’d think of the backside. The thin silk straps of the dress meet behind my neck, the back open aside from strands of pearls that crisscross from one side to the other and loop around to the front. Additional pearls hang from the top, creating makeshift cap sleeves. It will be a miracle if I make it through the night without accidentally snagging a strand and sending pearls flying everywhere.
Dorian blinks a few times and whispers, “That’s hardly a dress.”
“I am fae, you know. I don’t have to wear clothes that cover every inch of my body.” Although I’d like to, and right now I’m grateful that I at least wear long, elbow-length gloves. Pretending I’m a model of confidence, I keep my chin held high and lower myself onto my seat. I wave a flippant hand toward the audience around us. “Look how everyone else is dressed. I’m not the only one wearing a fancy gown.”
“A fancy gown…that’s not…” He opens and closes his fists a few times, still half-standing.
I meet his eyes with an innocent expression. “Aren’t you going to sit down?”
With a muttered curse he drops into the seat next to me and rubs his brow. “I can’t believe you’re wearing that,” he mumbles.
“What’s so wrong with it?” I bat my lashes. Now I’m just plain enjoying his discomfort.
“It leaves very little to the imagination.”
I huff a laugh. “Does that mean I’m robbing you of the pleasure of imagining me?”
He angles himself toward me and lowers his voice. “I’m not supposed to be drawing attention to myself. With you next to me…looking like that…” His throat bobs and his words seem to dry on his tongue. His eyes flash to my flimsy silk straps, to the pearls draped over my shoulders, then he pointedly looks away. Clearing his throat, he shifts awkwardly in his seat.
I suppress a grin as I look side to side, exaggerating my movements. Then I shrug. “I don’t see anyone looking at me.” As I say it, I feel his eyes burning into my profile. I slowly meet his gaze. There’s heat in his dark irises that I haven’t seen before. I don’t mean my next words to come out breathless, but they do. “Just you.”
“You’re infuriating,” he says, but it lacks the bite I expect. It’s almost a whisper, his voice so low it reverberates through my very bones. There’s no anger in his eyes. Just fire and trepidation. The look is so intoxicating, neither of us notices the fighters entering the ring. It’s only when a loud bell chimes that we both jump and cast our eyes to the center of the arena where the match has already begun.
31
As much as I’ve always admired the portraits of fighters, I’ve never seen a boxing match. I expect to hate it, that I’ll hardly be able to stomach watching it—especially next to Dorian—without thinking of Astern Ariko’s repulsive fae fighting ring. So I’m surprised by how quickly I find myself entertained. The two men, Emmet and Hastings, are both dressed in nothing but linen shorts and padded gloves. They circle each other, bobbing, weaving, and exchanging blows. When the bell chimes to mark the end of the round, they return to their respective corners, glaring at each other as they swallow down gulps of water. Then, as the bell marks the start of a new round, they rise to their feet and meet each other once again.
For the first couple rounds, Dorian remains reclined in his seat with an air of feigned boredom, jaw clenched tight as he refuses to look at or speak to me. As the match continues, he seems to give up on his unimpressed act and leans forward in his seat, elbows propped on his knees. Soon he’s shouting exclamations when the men land any particularly impressive blows. Most of the time, I can’t tell if he’s cursing or praising.
Finally, after glancing my way a few times, he leans toward me. “Do you know what’s going on?”
I scoff. “What makes you think I don’t?”
A corner of his mouth crooks up. “Well, do you?”
“A little.”
“Do you want me to tell you more?”
My first instinct is to refuse and tell him I can figure out the intricacies of blood sport just fine on my own. But I didn’t bring him here to argue. I brought him here to woo and seduce him, and this gives me a chance to improve the less-than-stellar interactions we’ve had tonight so far. Besides, there’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes, one that has me nodding.
His expression brightens at my acceptance, and he leans a little closer. “The man with the red hair, that’s Emmet. He’s the reigning world heavyweight champion. The dark haired one, that’s Hastings. He’s the challenger. And he’s amazing.”
