Torben shudders, and before I can blink, he stands before me in seelie form.
My breath catches as I find myself close to him, my hand on his jaw. It’s exactly how we stood a second ago, but it feels different than it did when he was a bear. I nearly lurch a step back, but when I catch sight of his crooked grin, I know that’s exactly what he expected me to do. He meant to catch me off guard. To fluster me with his sudden nearness.
So, forcing myself to act nonchalant, I step slightly closer, pretending to be preoccupied with inspecting the wound on his cheek. It doesn’t take long before I’m not pretending at all. The gash looks far less severe and no longer actively gushes. Instead, the line begins shrinking before my eyes, his flesh weaving together until only dried blood remains.
“See,” I say, patting his bearded jaw the same way I would have pet his soft pelt. “I care just fine.” It’s my turn to wear a smug grin now, knowing I beat him at his game. But when my eyes meet his, there’s no taunting on his face. Instead, his expression is slack. Open. His body rigid aside from the pulse of his chest. A chest I can clearly see through the bloody tears in his shirt.
I clear my throat and step back from him, keeping my eyes anywhere but the firm musculature of his wide torso, the exposed skin over his thighs where his trousers have been torn to shreds. I hadn’t expected his wounds to have affected his clothing, but it makes sense that they would. When fae shift from seelie to unseelie, their clothing merges with them, becoming part of their unseelie form. It stands to reason that anything done to their unseelie bodies is also done to their seelie bodies—clothing included. I’d have firsthand experience with this if I were like a normal half-fae girl and could shift at all.
“I’m glad you’re healing,” I say stiffly as heat burns my cheeks. Can he see how I blush? I remember what he said earlier about having glimpsed my true face. It shouldn’t have been possible, and yet the prospect makes my cheeks flush deeper.
Damn him. Why does he have me so flustered right now?
“Get ready, Astrid.” His voice rouses me from my embarrassment and brings my attention to the opening gate.
My stomach bottoms out, bringing back all the dread I felt before I became distracted by Torben’s wounds…and his closeness. Now that my dire circumstances have returned to the forefront of my mind, I’m grateful for the brief respite the momentary distraction provided. It makes me wonder if he’d meant to distract me. That might be giving him too much credit, though. Could he really care about giving me a few moments of freedom from my worries? Doubtful.
“Remember our plan,” Torben says. “Do not physically engage. Do nothing brash. Yield at once if it isn’t your stepmother—”
“I know the plan, Huntsman,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended it to be. “It’s my plan, after all.”
He says nothing more as I approach the archway and the sandy pit beyond. The Master of Ceremonies once again stands in the center of the ring, reviewing thevery special circumstancesof tonight’s duel and the second spectacle that awaits.
My eyes lock on the opposite side of the pit, but the announcer’s fluttering wings obscure my view.
“Astrid,” Torben whispers. I feel a hand press lightly against my lower back.
I realize I’m still frozen under the archway, and the Master of Ceremonies has his hand extended my way. He must have announced me.
Torben speaks again. “You can do this.”
On trembling legs that feel more like water than limbs, I step away from the doorway and into the pit. I’m greeted by silence. A glance into the stands reveals the stadium holds about a third less audience members than there had been for Torben’s fight.
The scrape of metal screeches behind me, and I take a final look at Torben as the latticed grate slides shut. He gives me a nod from behind the woven bars.
Then, with a deep breath, I face forward again, just in time to watch the Master of Ceremonies leap into the air and fly back to wherever he perches during the fights. My stomach roils as I stare across the pit, seeing no sign of my opponent. I squint, seeking the slightest movement in the air. Queen Tris could be here in her unseelie form, a manifestation she rarely takes. I’ve only seen her in that form once, but I remember her looking like a tiny pixie with a twig-like body and a pink flower for a head. But no matter how intently I search, I see no sign of pixie wings fluttering about.
I frown. This isn’t how these duels are supposed to go. The two fighters always exit their respective archways before the announcer flies off. I’m not even certain my opponent’s name was announced yet. Madame Fury must have orchestrated this dramatic entrance for entertainment purposes.
I curl my fingers into fists, although I’m tempted to reach into my pocket and take several drops of my tincture. Thanks to Torben’s interference, it’s been hours since my last dose. I’d meant to take another during his fight, but I’d been unable to tear my eyes away from the duel.
Now I’m left with nothing but anxiety. Dread. An aching fear that tightens my chest.
What was I thinking? What was I thinking facing Tris like this?
Something shifts in the shadowed archway across from me. My mind goes still, but my heart turns wild. Thudding. Racing. Hammering as heavy as a drum.
A figure emerges into the arena.
I shutter my eyes, trying to reconcile what I see with what I expected. I anticipated a tall form with cherry blossoms for hair. Or perhaps a pixie with pink wings.
What I didn’t expect was the human female with brown hair and wide, horrified eyes, trembling as her gaze meets mine.
My opponent isn’t Queen Tris.
It’s Marybeth.
My lady’s maid.
