At the far end of the dance floor, just in front of the dais, long tables were piled with roasted meats, potatoes swimming in butter and rosemary, honey-soaked cakes topped with edible flowers—the Koenig showing off the bounty he’d provided with the hammer’s magic.
In the center of the table, a large swan with pristine white feathers gleamed in the candleglow. Its wings were raised to expose a bulb of glazed meat from which several slices had already been removed.
Cassandra raised her chin and flared her own pristine white wings, fluttering her silk dress.
Wormwood scurried over, wearing a preening smile. He winked at Ronin, who offered him a fanged grin in return.
“Challenger Fortin,” Wormwood said. “You look like a lovely, delicate blossom. Come.” He plucked up her forearm and rested it atop his own. “I’ll have someone fetch you some food.” He snapped at a servant, then flicked toward the buffet. “Let us not be enemies tonight. We will dine, drink, and dance to honor Vestan.”
Cassandra didn’t bother responding. Stoic and strong, that was her mask tonight. She’d be a careful observer, would protest nothing, and wouldn’t show a hint of nerves. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Wormwood and nearly everyone else in this hall expected her to die tomorrow.
As Wormwood dragged her toward the dais, Ronin and Mireille slipped into the crowd. Cassandra sensed Tristan move away, as well. Likely to plant himself at the closest column to keep an eye on her—a silent sentinel ready to defend, maim, and kill for his female. Her lips twitched upward at the thought.
Anyway, she was more worried for Ronin and Mireille than herself. Cassandra still had the protection of the blood vow upon her; they did not. The Koenig or his Brethren might attempt to put them out of commission before the appeal tomorrow, weaken Cassandra’s chances.
Wormwood led her onto the dais, then sat her down next to the Koenig.
Aedelmar didn’t acknowledge her presence. Was signing toward a black-haired male on his left whose beard was bathed in juice from his roast pork.
A servant placed a plate before her—slices of swan and nothing else.
Excited speculations and critical gazes roved over her, prickling her flesh and ruffling her wings.
“…will never defeat him…”
“…does look alittlestronger than when she first arrived. I wonder who has been…”
“…not going to last more than a few minutes…”
She ignored them as she dug into her meal.
Wormwood sauntered to the edge of the dais. “Dearest Brethren and our most esteemed challenger—” he aimed an oily smile at Cassandra “—welcome to our pre-trial feast! We hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves so far. Please, help yourself to the generous bounty of food and drink provided by our beloved Koenig. Tomorrow, life as we know it in our little city could change—if challenger Fortin is up to the task.”
Snickers erupted, and Cassandra ignored them, keeping her wings and chin up.
Wormwood raised a bronze goblet toward her. “May Vestan the Warrior bless your appeal. May he guide your weapons and your heart. May he offer you grace in victory and dignity in defeat. To the warrior!”
Cassandra darted a side-eyed glance toward the Koenig, but the male wasn’t even paying attention. Had a dark-haired Deathstalker beauty with jade green eyes and ebony skin perched in his lap. His hand was crawling up the thigh-slit in her salmon dress as she whispered into his ear.
Couldn’t even be bothered to pay attention to what could be his last meal. He was that assured of his victory.
As Cassandra drank from her goblet, a small sip of wine to take the edge off, she couldn’t wait for tomorrow.
So she could prove him wrong.
“He’s lookingat you like he wants to eat you,” Ronin growled, shoveling a forkful of potatoes into his mouth.
Mireille glanced up to the dais. The Koenig was indeed staring at her. Ravenously.
Let the fucker stare, her wolf piped up.Maybe it will make Ronin so jealous that he’ll take us again as roughly as he?—
Hush, Mireille hissed, not needing a reminder.
She hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.
But whatever madness was going on between her and Ronin—the knife-to-throat hand job, the rough sex in the alley—they hadn’t said a word about either since.
Maybe Cassandra was right about hate-fucking being a bad idea.
