As I twirl and spin, my mind reels. Maybe it’s the wine, or my numbing trauma, or the shock of Rian’s wedding date announcement. Attendees’ masked faces whirl around me like a nightmare.
What am I going to do? Rian might not be quite the devil I thought he was, but I’m no fool. I know that I haven’t met the real him yet. He’s an expert at hiding his true nature, and thus far, he’s only presented a carefully cultivated facade. Still, I’ll take that over a baldfaced villain like his father any day.
At least Rian has been respectful. He’s gifted me anything I could want; but I feel nothing for him. He’s handsome, but it isn’t his face I dream about. He’s rich, but I don’t care about his money.
My heart doesn’t surge for him in that dizzying, terrifying, bone-melting way that it has before. Halfway through the dance, my eyes seek out Basten at the crowd’s edge. His face is stoic, betraying no emotion, the perfect unfeeling soldier. But I know he must feel something. In the waterfall cave, he pledged himself to me. He made love to me like I was the only woman in the world. I don’t know why his sentiments turned, but he’s masking his real feelings now, too. I know it. I want to tear down that mask, stare straight into his soul, and demand to know why he broke me.
After the dance, we return to the high lord’s table, but the music doesn’t restart for another song. With a devilish grin, Rian announces, “I’ve prepared special entertainment for tonight’s celebration. A battle of strength between two of Duren’s most famed fighters, Magnus Lancaster and Roland the Shade!”
He claps his hand together in a signal, and the crowd shuffles backward to clear a wide circle in the center of the ballroom. For the first time, I notice the inlaid wood on the polished floor isn’t just a decorative pattern; it cleverly forms a game boundary. Among other markings, there’s a circle delineating where a pair would fight.
Two hulking men stride in from the back entrance. They’re clad only in leather breeches to show off their stacked muscles. Their faces are hardened as sea-beaten rocks, one with a short beard, the other with a deep scar across his jaw. One has a red “M” painted on his chest, and the other bears a painted blue “R.”
“For an extra treat,” Rian says, resting his hand on my shoulder. “I’d like to propose a wager to my future wife. Select a fighter, Lady Sabine. Should yours win, you may name your prize. However, if mine is the victor, you’ll forfeit a kiss.”
The crowd hoots scandalously, delighted by the bawdy wager, though it has to be relatively harmless, as far as Valvere bets go.
My stomach flips, and my eyes skim over the two fighters trying to win my favor by flexing their muscles. The promise of violence at my engagement party, even as a game, seems a tasteless choice. My eyes happen to land squarely on Basten, standing a few paces behind the fighters, and my heart falters.
But then I think about how he smelled of a whore’s perfume this morning, and my hands tighten in anger on the armrests.
“Wager accepted,” I announce tightly, to the crowd’s delight. “I’ll take the one in red.”
The two fighters step into the marked ring, dancing around one another with intimidating huffs. They’re clearly well-practiced at turning violence into a form of entertainment. I let my eyes drift up to the hanging lanterns. Grown men pummeling each other for sport feels barbaric; then again, what better ode to the ancient fae, the original barbarians?
After some performative banter between the fighters, which energizes the crowd, the bearded fighter, Roland, throws a powerful straight punch, which my red fighter evades by sidestepping. Magnus counters with a lightning-fast jab, followed by a kick to Roland’s midsection. Roland responds with a flurry of hooks and uppercuts, adding a theatrical touch of acrobatics, which has the crowd squealing in delight.
My attention flickers between the fight and Basten. He watches in mild interest like he’s seen these productions a thousand times. And he has. For years, he was one of the fighters. Does it trigger him to see it again? Call back to his rough past?
If it does, he doesn’t show it.
Roland surprises Marcus with a well-timed inside leg kick that sends him off-balance. But my fighter lunges forward with a flying knee, striking Roland in the chest. The crowd shrieks—I don’t think Rian and I are the only ones with a wager riding on the outcome. Marcus is clearly the superior fighter, and I smile as I think of what prize I’ll ask Rian for—one that he might actually grant.
A long ride on Myst beyond the city walls?
One of the new puppies that was recently born to a sentinel hound, which I could raise into an ally?
Or maybe a tour of the real Duren, including the Sin Streets, and everything he’s been hiding from me?
But then Roland, worn down and near defeat, surprises Marcus with an explosive punch to the jaw. Marcus’s head is thrown back, and he does a backward swan-dive to the floor. As soon as his back touches the polished wood, Roland lifts his fist in victory.
Excitement erupts as bets in the crowd are settled—and my eyes go wide as I realize what this means. Improbably, Rian’s fighter won. Did he catch a lucky break? Yeah, unlikely. Chances are far better that Rian ordered whichever fighter I chose to throw the fight.
My dress feels too restricted as I shift uncomfortably in my seat, realizing I’ve been played. My cheeks burn crimson. The costume wings at my back dig into my spine.
I shoot Rian a glare. He smiles back wolfishly.
Damn the Valveres.
After Rian congratulates the winner and invites Roland to sit at the high lord’s table—the far end next to the less favorable nobles—the energy in the crowd shifts. The masked attendees, sated by wine, no longer crave bloodlust. Now they only desire lust.
“A kiss!” Someone shouts. “May the Winged Lady give our lord a kiss!”
“Yes, keep your promise, good lady!”
My fists ball in my lap. Behind my mask, my eyes scan the crowd with rising panic. How can I get out of this? On instinct, I fall back into the old habit of unconsciously seeking out Basten for help.
He’s standing by the ballroom’s rear entrance. His arms fold tightly over his breastplate. Lantern light gleams off his brass shoulder plates. His eyes bore into Rian as Rian settles back into his chair. Yeah, I’m not the only one who figured out that Rian rigged the game.
“What do you say, my lady?” Rian asks loud enough for the crowd to overhear. “Of course, far be it for me to think a rogue like myself has earned a carnal kiss from such a goddess; I’ll settle for one blown from your sweet lips.”
It’s surprisingly generous of Rian to offer me this way out of a real kiss, and while I’m certain he has ulterior motives, it does relax my tightly set muscles.
Glaring across the tops of the costumed attendees, I snag Basten’s eyes.
He laid with a whore? Well, two can play that game.
“Fair is fair, my lord,” I announce loudly, pushing to my feet and flouncing my harnessed wings theatrically before dropping my ass into Rian’s lap, glad my feathered mask hides my nerves.
The crowd oohs and titters at my cheeky move. Rian’s hands grip my hips, adjusting me in his lap with a touch of both suspicion and intrigue on his face.