“Shoes off,” Gunnar said at the edge of the mat.
“Gloves off?” Freyja perked.
“On,” Gunnar and I said together.
At least two of us were on the same page.
Pushing off the ropes, Freyja gave me a vicious grin. She moved to the center of the ring—hopping, weaving, punching the air—practicing what she’d inevitably be doing to my face.
More elves drifted over, suspicious glances tracking my every flinch. I could’ve sworn I saw copper and silver coins change hands. Bets were definitely not on me.
“Pick your gloves.” Gunnar gestured to the racks of gear with blue, red, gold, silver, and neon pads on display within the shelves. “I’ll help you wrap your wrists.”
Adrenaline burned through me. How had I ended up here? I just wanted to go for a walk, had wanted to burn off the confusing wave of optimism and power and rage that had bubbled up in me.
I unzipped my hoodie and shrugged it off, my stomach peeking between the high waist of my leggings and my sports bra. Alright, maybe I had wanted to do something, prove something—hit something. That was why I stumbled up here. That was why I changed after chatting with Olivia.
Goosebumps flooded my arms, but I hardly felt the cold.
I settled on a pair of all-black mitts to counter the princess’s hot-pink gloves flashing in the corner of my vision.
Grabbing a roll of ivory cloth, Gunnar took my wrist. His touch was delicate, despite the fact that he could probably kill me with one punch. He unrolled the material, wrapping it around the base of my hand, then began slowly weaving it between my fingers. My red, raw fingers, utterly destroyed by my picking.
Heat crept up my neck again. Ugh. It was just a simple task, a mandatory one for a fight.
Still—this close, I could feel the warmth radiating off him, and when his skin grazed mine…
“Sorry,” he murmured. But he didn’t flinch.
I turned away, and a glint of silver caught my eye. The top of a dome peeked out behind a smaller ridge, the rest of it backed by nothing but sky, as if it dangled on the edge of a precipice.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“The Terrordome,” he said, not breaking from the rhythm of his work.
“What’s it for?”
“Fighting.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing here?”
“Here, we’re training.” He dropped my right hand, picking up the left with a gentle touch. “There, you fight to the death.”
“Don’t tell me loser goes to the Terrordome, otherwise you might as well perform my last rites now.”
A smile slipped along his lips, but his eyes remained on his task. “Nah, it serves more as a reminder of the past.” He tucked the edge of the material into another layer on my palm. “You ready?”
No. “Yes,” I blew out, swallowing thickly against the rush of my nerves.
Gunnar snagged a squishy helmet and placed it on my head. My nostrils flared at the lingering smell on the inner padding. Bending slightly to clip it beneath my chin, he brushed away the rogue strands of hair tangling in the buckle, fingers lightly skimming my neck in the process.
I laughed. “Sorry.” My shoulders shot to my ears. “Tickles.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, trying and failing to hold back a smile. “Done.”
Folding my lips between my teeth, I then slipped on the gloves.
My opponent hadn’t stopped dancing around—her feet quick, her gloves blurring into swipes of neon pink. Air hissed through her teeth with every jab, the extension powerful and swift. She didn’t even sport a helmet—she was that confident.
