The same one I felt when I saw my first human city. The first time I saw the marvels within an art gallery. Or when I stood outside this building, eager to discover what it contained. Or when I prowled the forest in my unseelie form, stalking unwitting rodents and small birds.
I grip the railing and lean partially over it, no longer caring about the ledge or the dangers of falling in my seelie form. I’m too drawn in to what I’m watching to worry about that. All I want is the closest look I can manage.
Because this violence…
It’s beautiful.
A work of art. A canvas awash with the muted hues of the crowd, flecked with crimson blood, highlighted with golden illumination from the sprites that glow overhead. At the center of this masterpiece is Monty. He’s amazing. The way he moves. The way he strikes. The sweat that coats his skin. The blood on his knuckles.
His hands are more than handlike.
They are godly, fierce, and everything inside me burns to draw them.
The bell sounds, and the fighters break away, darting back to their respective corners. My stomach drops with disappointment until I realize they’re only taking a break. Still, I could hiss in my impatience, but at least I can take this time to study Monty’s form without Grave Danger obscuring my view. His chest heaves as he downs a glass of clear liquid. My lips part as I watch his throat bob with every swallow. Rivulets escape the corners of his lips, mingling with the sweat that paints his jaw, his neck, his impressive pectorals. Monty hands the empty glass to someone beside the stage, then rolls his neck and swings his arms. When he catches my gaze, he offers me a nod, but he’s less flippant than he was earlier. There’s a serious look on his face, a hardness in the line of his jaw.
The bell rings again, and the fighters return to the center of the ring, attacking each other at once. The break seems to have given them renewed vigor as they whip into a frenzy of punches, blocks, and dodges, neither gaining the upper hand nor backing down.
This goes on for three more rounds. By the fourth round, both fighters are visibly losing stamina. Their moves are slower, heavier, though they continue to be matched in damage, both in what they take and what they receive.
At one point, they exchange blows to the ribs that result in a clinch, both staggering to maintain their defense. Monty’s expression is intense yet weary around the edges while he throws another punch to his opponent’s ribs. Grave Danger’s teeth are bared, eyes narrowed, a snake cornered, yet he keeps Monty locked in the clinch.
The fae male’s gaze flicks up, flashing toward me for the briefest moment. Then his lipless mouth pulls wide and he hisses words I can’t hear. Grave Danger releases the clinch and darts back, but Monty roots himself in place, gaze murderous. I don’t know what the male said to him?—
The next thing I know, Monty lunges forward, fingers wrapped around Grave Danger’s throat. The fae does nothing to fight Monty off, even as his fingers wrap tighter.
Then the referee charges into the ring, shoving Monty back. Monty releases his opponent at once, just as the Master of Ceremonies steps onto the stage to shout, “Disqualified!”
Monty whirls around, hands on his hips as his lips form the wordfuck. His disappointment is palpable enough to feel to my core. It isn’t hard to guess choking isn’t allowed. Monty would have known that. So what did Grave Danger say to upset him?
Monty’s gaze lifts to mine, and he gives me an apologetic half smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Behind him, the referee raises Grave Danger’s hand to show him the victor, but in a flash of motion, the fae shrugs out of the kangaroo fae’s grasp and takes a step toward Monty. Then, pivoting back on one leg, he lifts his knee…
My eyes go wide, my heart leaping into my throat. I shout Monty’s name in warning. He shifts to the side?—
Just as Grave Danger extends his leg in a sharp upward kick that strikes Monty on the jaw.
He lands hard on his back.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MONTY
There are few better ways to wake up than in the arms of a beautiful woman. Or, in my case, the lap, which I only surmise due to the telltale silhouette of breasts that hover above my face. Clothed breasts, unfortunately, which tells me I’m not regaining consciousness in the middle of a particular kind of good time. Then again, it’s been a couple of years since I’ve last hadthatkind of good time, so what do I know?
That’s when a pair of dark eyes peer over those clothed mounds and pain erupts in my jaw.
I blink through my hazy vision until Daphne’s face becomes clear. When I see the faded green upholstery behind her, I recognize it as belonging to the settee in the club’s makeshift recovery room. A few glass orbs filled with fire sprites dangle from the ceiling, casting the dreary walls of peeling paint and partially singed wallpaper in a green glow. These particular fire sprites are known for their healing energies, as are the clusters of shelflike mushrooms that grow in the corners of the room.
My memories sharpen, reminding me of where I am and why I’m here. The match. My disqualification. The prohibited kick that knocked me out.
Daphne’s furrowed brow smooths with relief and she heaves a heavy sigh. “Thank the All of All you’re not dead.”
I shift my head in a weak attempt to rise but think better of it when my vision starts spinning. “I expected tears, Daffy Dear,” I say, my voice coming out weaker than I intend.
“What?”
“Tears. You once told me you’d cry if I died.”
