“Oh, enough of that. You wound up your hits so they’d lose power and time during the board game. You were holding back with the other faeries. Well, I’m not a faerie.” He quirks a brow.
So he noticed that. The king understands technique. Yes, he’s more powerful than I am, but that doesn’t matter in a fight, not really. What matters is precision.
“Your Magnificence, her shoulder, as you said,” the executioner answers.
Maxian spreads his arms wide. “Afraid she’s a better fighter than you, Death?”
Death is holding back, too,I realize.
I haven’t worked out in a few days to give my shoulder some rest, but now I’m restless, itching for activity after only Healing. I’m at the disadvantage in every other way. Except perhaps one.
No one has ever pulled their punches when punching me. Has Maxian ever been hit with the full force of someone’s hate? I doubt it. Like any faerie, I have—and often had to work full shifts afterward, too.
“I won’t hold back,” I warn.
I’m aware of everyone looking at me, but I only look at Maxian. A smile splits his face, the spark in his eyes brighter and sharper.
“Why do you think I picked you?” he says, ducking under the rope. “Brutality is in your blood.”
My vision blurs with rage, and I quell the heat that rises. Beside me, Carter sucks in a breath. I kick off my shoes so that we’re both barefoot. I want to take off my shirt, too, and fight in trousers and the band around my breasts, as the long sleeves of my shirt can be yanked. But those sleeves cover up the new tattoos placed there by Dominik, and I’m not ready for that conversation.
“If you’re going to do this, you need a ref,” the executioner mutters.
“Thanks for volunteering,” the king says.
I step over the ropes and onto the padded platform. Maxian runs fingers through his bronze hair. The son of the Sun King, and I, the daughter of Red the Ruthless, the unmarked and the marked, in the same ring. Bending my knees, I raise my fists to my chin and tuck in my elbows.
“Nice form.”
“Better than yours.”
Laughing, he lowers himself, light on his feet.
“Perhaps no magic as one of the rules?” Carter says from the sideline, approaching the ring with a tight expression.
Maxian shrugs. “Sure.”
“First to surrender,” Death confirms.
“What’s your safe word?” the king asks me.
I watch him, never looking away as we both start to circle. I think of the very first time I wanted to hit a king—the day the halfling guards tortured my mother for giving me slices of—
“Apple,” I say.
The executioner sighs. “Surrender will be three taps to the ground, not a word, since words may not be possible.”
“I’d like to see you speechless,” the king says as we circle closer.
What is going on? Has every fae lost all sense?But from the look on his face, the king does not see another prospect to be won, more like an accessory to have. An extension of Kassandra. Perhaps he wants us both, together.
Closer still, I can hear his breathing.
My gaze drops to his shorts, then back up again. Our eyes lock, heat smoldering in his, and I know I’m caught looking. Those lips pull up in a crooked grin.
“Start,” the executioner says.
I advance, a small step forward with my left leg, a quick jab with my right arm. The king blocks. I duck his counterpunch and weave beneath his outstretched arm, then swing an open-palmed left hook toward his jaw. He’s quick to block, pivot, trip me. I stumble forward, find my balance again.
