Fitz glanced up at the ceiling, where the imps huddled together. “I don’t suppose you’d do me the small favor of waiting to call the guards until I’ve left?”
“Got any sweets?” the green one asked.
Fitz sighed, wishing he’d known how to bribe impsbeforeembarking on this quest. “No.”
The imps opened their mouths and caterwauled at a volume impossibly loud for their tiny bodies.
Fitz clamped his wounded hand to his chest and ran.
The fight had drained out of Angelica when she’d seen the Lord of Grimnight. Not the man who had plotted against her kingdom, who had ridiculed her attempts to fight back, who had sacrificed his son for his evil plot. Instead, it was the man who had reversed time looking for a second chance.
How long had he planned to betray them?
The version of Wilde who had lounged on the throne seemed so distant from the hopelessly lovesick man she knew. His snide comments and cruel tone clashed with his usual quiet observations. It was like …
He was playing a part.
She gasped, thinking of the events that led to him resetting time. The minion who’d reacted on instinct, trying to protect his master. The club coming down on Maximus’ head. Wilde’s words: “I told you not to kill them!”
They might have been the words of an evil mage intending to use his captives for some darker purpose, but there’d been genuine distress in his voice.
And then he’d reset time to fix his minion’s mistake.
“Your Highness?”
She blinked, coming back to herself, back to the challenge she’d issued to Fyodor. “Do you feel like we’ve done this already?” she asked, trying to gauge how much he retained from the previous timeline.
He snorted and asked, “Backing down from the challenge already? You can always surrender, princess, but you’ll still owe me a prize.”
A blush heated her cheeks as she thought of what he’d asked for last time. She didn’t know the man well enough to marry him, yet her heart fluttered at the prospect. But she would never concede without a fight. She lifted her chin and said, “Prepare.”
He grinned and shifted into a fighting stance.
She struck first, and the fight began.
Angelica thought winning the fight once would give her the advantage—especially since she was the only one who remembered her opponent’s moves. Yet she found herself scrambling to block, to parry, to dodge each lightning-fast thrust or swipe of his blade. Anger simmered inside her as she realized he’d held back before!
She had no idea what made him take her seriously this time. Perhaps his subconscious warned him of her capabilities. Even with the knowledge, his technique remained flawed, as if it’d been years since he fought with such a thin, delicate blade. She could still win.
As soon as she had the thought, her foot snagged on a disturbed cobblestone. Pain shot through her ankle as she fell forward. She lost her grip on her sword, and it clattered to the ground.
Fyodor flung his own sword away and caught her in his strong, steady arms. “Are you alright, princess?” Every word rumbled through her.
She gazed up at him half-dazed, heart pounding as he held her against his broad chest. “I, yes, I think so.”
He held her for a long moment before releasing her, his calloused palms lingering on her upper arms.
Angelica tested her ankle and flinched at its throbbing response. “Twisted,” she confirmed. Because she wasn’t a sore loser, she told him magnanimously, “You’ve won our duel. What prize would you ask for?”
He watched her steadily for a moment, his hand raised as if to catch her again. Then he smiled and said, “What any man would ask for when a headstrong damsel holds a blade to his throat.”
She straightened her shoulders and held her breath, waiting for his proposal.
“A simple kiss.”
“What!” she shouted. “That’s not what you—ugh!”
He startled away from her then laughed at her frustration. “Did you expect something else?”
