Was she breaking that vow tonight by attending Ronin’s fight? Surely not. They were supposed to be lovers. How could it be anything other than prudent to learn more about him before they’d face the ultimate test up at the Cathedral of Bones?
She was already learning plenty from the crowd, who were in absolute hysteria over their Butcher. Last week, he’d handily won his bout against a hyena bi-form, but tonight promised much higher stakes. Ronin’s opponent, a Windrider from Brachos, was similarly undefeated in his home ring. The night’swinner would gain both a hefty purse ofdrachasand the title of cross-continental champion.
Mireille ascended the sticky concrete steps, boots squelching as she elbowed through the rowdy spectators. She’d hidden her signature tresses underneath a navy beanie, and, bundled within her gray wool jacket, she hoped no one would recognize her.
Not really the ballet crowd.
She picked her way to her seat, glancing down toward the current match. A female Deathstalker with two black braids had a female Windrider in a headlock. The bottoms of the latter’s white wings dragged across the cage floor, soaking up the spattered blood.
As Mireille sat, the male next to her shot to his feet, cheering at the Windrider bucking out of the Deathstalker’s hold, and his drink tipped off the armrest into Mireille’s lap.
“Sorry,sorry.” He grabbed his empty cup, then patted at her crotch. With his bare hands.
She smacked his hands away with a soft snarl, and he turned back to the fight, muttering something that sounded a lot likecunt.
Definitelynot the ballet crowd.
She pressed her jacket against her damp thighs, then swiveled her head toward the concession stand. The tangled mass of bodies flowing through the aisle discouraged her from fetching a pile of napkins.
The fight between the two females ended—the Windrider had pulled off the win—and the announcer, a walrus Beastrunner with hefty tusks on display, stepped to the center of the ring, silencing the spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemales,” he said into a floating violet disk that amplified his rumbling voice, “it’s time to crown a new continental champion. Are you ready?” The crowd surgedupward, shouting and stomping their feet. Mireille joined in, politely clapping her hands.
“All the way from the windy wilds of Diachre, please welcome the brown-winged brute, the fists of fury, the beauty with the braids…Callum Maloney!”
A bulky Windrider with fleshy wings jogged into the ring, pounding his fists against his bare chest and roaring at the stands. His ginger hair was braided back from a face that revealed the sarcasm in the announcer’s nickname.
Callum Maloney was perhaps the ugliest Fae male Mireille had ever seen.
His black eyes bulged above a bulbous nose, his chin jutting forward in a severe underbite. He looked like one of those toothy, gelatinous fish that stalked the depths of the Sea of Thetis.
Jeers pelted Callum as he taunted the crowd from his side of the ring, bouncing back and forth on his feet.
“And now,” the announcer boomed, “the male who needs no introduction—but I’ll do it anyway because we all know how much he loves it—put your hands together for our hometown hero, the tattooed terror himself, everyone’s favorite white wolf…RONIN MATAKOS!”
Thunderous applause wracked the arena as Ronin sauntered into the cage.
“Bu-TCHER! Bu-TCHER! Bu-TCHER!”
The eardrum-bursting cheers faded to a faint hum as Mireille beheld Ronin.
She was no stranger to chiseled males, fellow dancers who spent hours each day honing their forms. But their lithe bodies were marble-smooth—works of art.
Ronin’s body was a work of war.
A broad chest covered with swirling tattoos and tiny white hairs. Thick, sculpted arms capable of crushing a skull. Orcradling a female. Divine abdominal muscles, seemingly crafted by Vestan the Warrior God himself.
Mireille couldn’t decide what to ogle first. So she just ogled it all.
Josef had most certainly been unseated.
Ronin didn’t need to resort to his opponent’s theatrics. Dragging his gilded blue gaze across the rapturous crowd, he offered a subtle nod, then took his corner, the portrait of aloof confidence. He rested his hands on his hips, his fingers grazing those insane cuts of muscle that flowed into his loose black sparring pants.
Mireille unbuttoned her jacket, suddenly needing to cool her heated blood.
The announcer addressed the two fighters. “You both know the rules.” He paused with a serious look before he threw his head back and cackled. “There are no rules! Except for the one: no magic. Yes, gents?”
Both males affirmed, Maloney fingering the nessite-lined cuffs around his wrists. Not enough nessite to fully paralyze him, but enough to deactivate his wind magic.
