“No,” I growled, fury thick in my throat. “You don’t get to claim that. You got your partner killed because you couldn’t be bothered to earn your win. You stole. You cheated. And it cost a life.”
Before he could respond, he jerked his head forward, headbutting me. Pain bloomed across my cheekbone. I surged forward again, ready to tear him apart. But hands gripped my arms, pulling me back.
“Enough!” Thorne barked.
Ezra grabbed my other side, but he wore a satisfied smirk at the state I’d left Devrin in. Bex was there too, breath ragged, eyes wide. Her gaze met mine. Calm. Steady. Forgiving.
“It’s okay, Briar,” she promised, and just like that, the fight bled out of me.
I let them pull me back, let them lead me toward the waiting cars. One last venomous glare at Devrin, who grimaced through bloodied teeth, before I let it go.
Inside the car, Bex slid in next to me, leaning into my side like it was the most natural thing in the world. I draped my arm around her shoulders, holding her close, feeling the exhaustion in her frame.
“You know what he said isn’t true, right?” I murmured into her hair. “You didn’t cause that.”
She looked up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears, and nodded. “I know,” she whispered.
I pressed a soft kiss to her temple and traced soothing, absent patterns down her back as she drifted off against me.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Bex
My head throbbed,a dull, persistent ache behind my eyes as a small army of stylists descended on me the moment we arrived. I barely registered their voices as they scrubbed away the blood from my skin, bathed me in scented water that stung the cuts on my skin, and wrapped me in silks and gauze and glittering jewels. Their hands worked quickly, painting my face in soft, practiced strokes, dabbing away the evidence of exhaustion until I looked like someone who belonged here. Someone Praxis would be proud to display.
I hated it.
Worse than the ache in my head, worse than the raw throb of my temple where dried blood had been carefully wiped away, was the knot in my chest. The ache of absence. I’d been whisked away from my partners the second we arrived, led down a different hall while the others were taken to their own stylists, their own cages to be polished and prepped for the show.
My partners.
The words echoed in my head. Maybe it was selfish to think of them that way, but I did. Zaffir, with his soft heart and haunted eyes. Ezra, steady and fierce. Briar’s protection, Thorne’s humor. They were mine, and I was theirs. At least I felt like they were.
I startled when Zaffir appeared beside me, offering a glass filled with something thick and vaguely green. “It’ll settle your stomach,” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges but gentle. “And keep you on your feet.”
I took it without question, downing half before I could think about the taste. Whatever it was, it worked. The spinning slowed, the edges of my vision steadied. I shot him a grateful look as Nova finished smudging black smoke around my eyes and brushing shimmer across my lips.
Then she stepped aside, letting me face the mirror.
I groaned softly. It wasn’t bad, the makeup was the familiar dark palette of the Collectives, but the rest of it…felt distinctly Praxis. The dress clung to me like liquid night, black beads and tiny jewels stitched into the corset bodice. It shimmered in the light, every movement sending a ripple of reflected color across the fabric. The neckline plunged deeper than necessary, the train of it trailing behind me.
It was stunning. And it would have fed my family for a year.
“Don’t look so glum, girl,” Nova said, tossing a glance my way as she dabbed powder along my jawline. “You’re a fan favorite. That’s something to be proud of.”
I met her eyes in the mirror, wishing I could find the words to explain just how hollow that title felt. How little pride I felt for the things I’d had to do just to survive.
“Yeah,” I said flatly, the word sitting heavy in my mouth.
She looked at me a moment longer, her sharp gazesoftening just slightly, like a crack in armor. Then she turned back to the vanity, adjusting a gold pin in her hair.
“I’m glad you didn’t die in the canals,” she said, her voice almost offhand—like she was commenting on the weather—but the words carried a note of hesitation. A flicker of worry she hadn’t meant to reveal. It was the first real glimmer of humanity I’d seen in her.
“Thank you,” I replied, and to my own surprise, I meant it.
I forced myself to stand as a girl in a pale silver pantsuit appeared at my side, headset snug against her head, a clipboard in her arms. She smiled, professional and a little too rehearsed.