He suppressed the smirk that threatened to appear on his lips, the need to triumph hitting him with a fierce and wrathful savagery.
He sliced his eyes to Zolan and let his potent leer run free.
There was a reason Mak didn’t trust Zolan.
Thefokkerwas running a secretive cartel side hustle.
His clan, facing poverty, had turned to undermining our business.
Undercutting his contracts, sabotaging Sauvage facilities, and stealing their steel, diamonds, and resources in brazen attacks.
The Asivan family had also been terrorizing Sauvage supply ships in raids and acts of fraud, all in an attempt to undermine their dominance in the alloy and energy sector.
Now, if thekinaihad simply asked Mak to make a deal with him, he might have allowed a partnership.
That he didn’t, irked Mak to no end, and he was keen to wipe his self-satisfied smirk off his cousin’s face.
Zolan lifted his chin, eyes narrowing at Mak’s unfettered goading, as four members of the Asivan clan, including his younger brother Shan, joined him.
In moments, the floor cleared. The wedding party and thousands of their guests encircled them, silent, their eyes locked on the ten men at the center of the space.
Whispers raced, and tension rose, for this was a rare face-off between the Sauvages and the Asivans.
The crowd vote would declare the victor, and the best dance lead would take the unofficial crown as the most elite warrior.
The priest who’d married Saba and Mak stepped forward, and after Mak nodded, he poured wine on the ground to honor their ancestors.
Both parties held their ceremonial gold, silver, and wooden staffs.
These were traditionally tucked into all men’s waistbands at weddings instead of weapons or rapiers that could be used to kill.
They were still lethal if employed with fatal intention.
With a raise of Mak’s chin, the drums, part of the orchestra, began to beat, first, in a slow, resonant cadence.
Mak was at the front of the pack, his back erect in vigorous tension, his limbs extended, and his spine ramrod straight.
They kicked off with a stamping pattern that led to a hop from one foot to the other. Their naked torsos were inclined to the ground, and their feet drummed a staccato pulse.
They alternated heavy steps with sudden pauses, during which they flung their staffs into the air, where they whirled in synchronized circles before falling back into their hands.
Mak stepped forward and entered a trance, allowing a free flow of movement to be tuned into a profound interpretation of the rhythm. He twisted his hips, tossed his staff, crouched, and exploded into leaps.
He threw his pain, anger, bitterness, and rage into every stamp and step, using the dance as a cathartic release for all his bone-weary sadness.
His expression was taut, dark, and brooding. His lips snarled, and he extended his incisors so there would be no doubt as to his menace.
Sensing his mood, his Sauvage kin did the same and roared with him, stamping their feet in response to the change in the rhythm.
Their lewd calls, loud whistles, and untamed roars urged him to perform even more incredible feats of wild thrusting and twisting.
As the rhythm increased, his leaps were accompanied by a variety of subtle foot patterns, turns, kicks, and jumps.
He flourished his staff as he altered his tempo in reaction to the percussion, demonstrating the power and passion of his warrior spirit.
Lost in the trance of the beat and the movements, this was a bare expression of the soul; in ancient times, it had been an outpouring of strength and will to fight well in war.
He carried it in every movement, a potency indisputable and absolute.
