Of course, Monty chooses that moment to finish stripping off his shirt and catches me ogling him. Ogling…every inch of his very impressive, very rippling physique. He’s somehow lean yet chiseled, all hard angles, dips, and rises. He even has that V-shaped muscular configuration above the low waist of his trousers, something I’ve only ever read about. I force my gaze to his and find his gray eyes glittering with amusement. His lips quirk at one corner. Then he tosses his shirt onto the table and swings his legs over the railing. I expect him to jump down, but something draws his attention back to me. He shifts to face me from the other side of the balustrade, feet perched on the outer ledge of the balcony.
“You’ve got something, right here…” His fingertips come to my face. To my lips.
I’m frozen in terror as he plucks the chunk of candy floss I had stuck to me. With his half grin still on his face, he brings the fluff to his mouth. Then pauses.
“Ah, right. Booze.” He holds his fingers out to me, the pink fluff between them.
I’m so shocked, so mortified, that I act on instinct alone, leaning in to take the candy from his fingers.
It happens so fast, I can hardly process what I’m doing…
Then my mind catches up with the lips I have wrapped around the tips of Monty’s forefinger and thumb. The tongue that sweeps excess sugar off his skin. I pull back at once.
For the love of the All of All, what did I just do? Should I disappear forever? Should I shift into my unseelie form and run away, never to return?
“Root for me, Daffy Dear,” he says as if we’d just had the most normal exchange in the world. Then he does the last thing I expect.
He licks his fingertips—the very place my mouth was mere seconds before.
A ball of heat burns low in my belly at the sight.
With that, he releases the railing, steps back, and drops from the balcony.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DAPHNE
My heart crashes in my chest as I watch Monty land in a partial crouch on the floor below. The audience claps as he approaches the ring, and I internally beg him not to turn around and look at me.
For if he did, he’d see the furious tint of red in my cheeks.
I still can’t comprehend the fact that I just sucked candy off his fingers. In public. And that he licked my saliva off in turn. It was vulgar. Improper. Something that could get a woman cast out of gentle society, regardless of whether she’s human or fae.
But…this isn’t gentle society, and I’ve already accepted that I am not a lady of gentle breeding. A quick glance at those who occupy the tables around me shows not a single judging eye looking my way. Everyone is far more interested in the sport. Now that I’m truly assessing my surroundings, I notice far more scathing sights than what I just did. A human male stands on one of the tables, shaking his hips in a drunken dance, his pint of ale sloshing over the rim of his glass. An elegant human woman wears a silky pink evening gown…that’s entirely see-through. A couple kisses passionately against a wall, only half hidden by shadows—wait, is that Araminta? Before I can know for sure, another burst of applause drags my attention back to the center of the room.
Monty climbs upon the stage. His feet are bare, the cuffs of his trousers rolled up to his lower calves. He and his opponent stand at opposite corners of the ring, preparing for their fight. Monty swings out his arms, rolls his shoulders, shuffles his feet. My eyes are locked on his every move, every flex of his muscles. The cords in his neck, the bob of his throat, the curl of his lips…
I lift my gaze slightly to find his eyes are already on mine. He points at me, and damn it all, I can’t help but recall licking that very finger. Then his lips move, and though his voice doesn’t carry past my candy’s enchantment—and perhaps the crowd is too loud regardless—I can read the shape of each word.Root for me.
I don’t know exactly what rooting for someone entails, but if it means hooting and hollering like those around me, I’d rather eat raw broccoli. Which I despise. But I do want to encourage him. Show my support. So I raise my fist with a quiet and uncertain “Yay?”
He emits a laugh I can’t hear.
Then I notice another pair of eyes on me.
His opponent—Grave Danger, I think the announcer referred to him as—swivels around, eyes narrowed as he assesses me. His skin is coated entirely with amber scales, his green eyes bearing slitted pupils, his grin showing off pointed teeth. I’m startled by his attention at first, and I’m tempted to shrink from his sight. But a stronger instinct takes over. My inner hunter, emboldened by the liquor in my belly, curls my lips in a snarl as I stare down my nose at him like he’s nothing more than a field mouse. Holding his gaze, I tear off another bite of candy floss.
He turns back around and appears to shout something at Monty. Monty visibly stiffens, expression darkening as he flexes his fingers. Balls them into fists.
The bell rings again, and the two fighters step out from their corners. Where the previous combatants immediately swung for each other, Monty and his opponent start slow, assessing as they circle each other. They exchange a few experimental blows that are dodged with ease. Even without knowing much about this sport, I can tell they’re merely testing each other. Sizing up the competition.
Finally, Monty lunges forward and swings for his opponent’s ribs. Grave Danger returns the punch, and the two practically fly at each other, punching, blocking, dodging, their moves so quick I can hardly follow them. The previous match was raw and brutal, but this one is more like a dance. Perhaps the two fighters are simply matched in skill and speed. Though the longer I watch, the more I come to understand they each possess their own style.
Grave Danger moves in sharp, sudden bursts, normally in straight punches or quick jabs to the face or neck. He strikes with ferocity and speed, his dodge as fast as his attack. That paired with the amber scales coating his skin tells me he must be some kind of serpentine fae.
Yet where Grave Danger punches faster and more frequently, Monty’s throws are harder, more decisive. I drink in the sight of my friend, the way his shoulder blades glide beneath his skin with every punch, the way his abdomen contracts. My heart stutters with every blow Grave Danger lands on him, but I feel something else entirely when Monty throws a punch. When his knuckles split after a vicious jab to his opponent’s jaw.
It’s the thrill.
