A ripple of anger courses through me, and my magic flares in response, eager to lash out. But I clamp down hard, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from giving us away. The guys exchange worried glances, sensing my struggle.
Then, cutting through the cacophony, a booming voice announces the next contenders. “By virtue of death!” the announcer proclaims, his words chillingly casual. Two bodies are dragged from the ring—lifeless forms that once were fierce competitors.
“Next in the Royale,” the voice continues, “welcome the demon warlock and the mysterious masked Fae!”
Our attention snaps back to the arena as the new fighters step forward. Unlike the others, one wears a mask that shields any hint of identity, the black armor almost swallowing his form whole.
“Curious,” I murmur, my brow furrowing. “Why the need for a mask? What Fae hides among his own kind?”
“Perhaps it’s not about hiding from them, but hiding something about themselves,” Dezi suggests thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the shrouded figure.
As the gruesome task of removing the fallen combatants is performed, an icy dread grips me. The sight of the wolf being hauled away triggers a visceral reaction; somewhere deep inside, alarm bells ring for my sister. Leaning towards Khol, my voice is barely above a whisper. “I hope Rev’s pixie checks in soon. I need to know she’s safe.”
He squeezes my hand in silent solidarity, his reptilian eyes reflecting the same concern that gnaws at my insides.
Seeing a dead wolf being dragged from a fighting ring scares me even more than admitting my feelings for these idiots—and that’s saying a lot.
We turn back just as the fight reignites, the crowd’s roar swelling like a wave. This could be our chance to peel back another layer ofArrowwood’s dark secrets. Whatever happens next, it’s bound to shed light on the grim reality of this hidden world.
The din of the underground fight club crashes against my senses, a symphony of violence that resonates with the basilisk within me. My eyes are locked onto the combatants in the ring, muscles tensing with every brutal exchange. The temptation to leap into the fray is a siren call; I’ve fought in pits like this before, thrived in them even. But now, as Fiadh’s presence reminds me, we’re shadows here, not participants.
Just keep it together, asshole.
“Easy, Khol,” Dezi murmurs from beside me, his gaze sharp and knowing as he takes in my barely contained agitation. I can feel the shift under my skin, an itch that demands scratching, but drawing attention is the last thing we need.
I grit my teeth, fighting the primal urge as memories of a painful past claw their way to the forefront. Uncle Krystos’ training methods were nothing short of barbaric. From a young age, I was thrown into hellish scenarios, molded to become the perfect soldier by enduring forced shifts and learning to suppress the forbidden ones, all under the guise of discipline and power.
A slight arch of Dezi’s brow suggests he could compel me to stay human, but the very thought sets off a flare of defiance. Control is something I’ve bled for, something I refuse to relinquish. Khal’s safety depended on it. He was spared from the horrors and kept in product development because I became what our uncle wanted—a monster among men.
When I kill that motherfucker, he’ll realize he made the instrument of his own demise, and I’ll win.
“Never again,” I subvocalize, more to myself than to Dezi, a silent vow that no one will ever hold the reins over my beast again. Uncle Krystos may have used leader dominance to break me in, but those chains have long been shattered.
“Focus on keeping that form of yours in check,” I remind myself, the words a cold splash of reality against the heat of bloodlust. We’re here for a reason, and it isn’t to lose ourselves in the savagery of combat. Not tonight.
The scent of fae blood, a metallic tang laced with something ethereal, floods my senses as a headless body crumples to the ground. The crowd’s roar crescendos, a tidal wave of cheers and bloodlust that threatens to sweep me away in its ferocity. I can feel it, the primal urge, the serpent within uncoiling, eager to join the fray.
“Khol,” Fiadh whispers, her voice a lifeline in the storm of violence, “we can leave if it’s too much.” Her gaze is steady, concern etched into her delicate features. But retreat isn’t an option—not when duty anchors us here, not when I refuse to be the beast unconstrained.
But she noticed, and she admitted she was worried, so I can’t rebuff her.
I shake my head, determined to be better for her. “I’m fine,” I lie.
Fi doesn’t buy it for a second. She steps closer, her hands cradling my face with a tenderness that feels like a balm to my fraying control. Our foreheads touch, a silent communion as she channels peace through our bond. It’s a curious sensation—the warmth of her calm seeping into me, quelling the rising tumult. Dezi watches on, his eyes narrow slits, as if dissecting the magic at work between witch and basilisk.
“Thanks,” I manage after a moment, feeling the beast recede, caged once more by my will. I press my lips to hers in a brief kiss, a flicker of humor dancing in my eyes. “For not letting me make an ass of myself.”
She flushes, a rose blooming in the shadows, and ducks her head. “It’s nothing,” she mumbles, but we both know it’s everything.
Of course, she’s not ready to vocalize things like I am, so I let her off the hook.
Turning back to the chaos, I catch sight of opulence amidst the grime—a group of well-dressed spectators in a roped-off section. Their clothes scream money, and their detached expressions reek of power.
“Bankers or VIPs,” I murmur to Dezi, who nods in agreement. “Those people hold more power than anyone else in this room, even the fighters.”
“Too clean for this pit,” he observes, disdain curling his lip.
Our conversation halts as the masked Fae lunges, his blade singing through the air to find its mark in the wyvern’s heart. The creature’s death knell vibrates through the arena, and victory is claimed amidst a cacophony of applause.
