I left him alone and vulnerable, then swept in with violence instead of keeping my cool.
It’s pathetic.
Now Luke is watching me with a tense grimace. I might have stolen him from his home, but my intentions were never duplicitous. I want to keep him safe. Happy. In comfort. Is that really so wrong?
I almost wave Anatole off, just so I can have a moment alone with my promised, but my voice gets stuck in my throat when I realize this would have meant forfeiting the duel and defeat. The bastard put me in an impossible position, and he knows it.
“Not a chance. I only wish this was a real fight,” I growl out, because none of us is allowed to make the other bleed during a duel at court. The use of shadowcraft is strictly forbidden, and we will attempt to cut off roses attached to our chests instead. Which plays into Anatole’s hand, since I have seen him fence, and he might just be my superior when it comes to the sport.
Fucking bastard.
I hate himsomuch. I wish I could grab him with shadows and pulverize his skull, but no. All I can do is use my sword to cut the rose carefully attached to his chest by his sister. She even dares a mean smirk at me. The whole damn Goldweed family can get sucked into Heartbreak’s innards for all I care. I’ll let their hearts stew inside the beast forever, so they never know peace.
Sabine approaches me with a somber expression. I wish Luke was the one to attach my rose, but he doesn’t know our customs. At least I hope it’s just that, because he looks so distressed I want to hug and reassure him.
“Keep your head, Kyranis,” Sabine whispers, resting her hands on her substantial bump as soon as she’s done pinning a black flower to my chest. “Anatole will surely play dirty.”
“He already has,” I mumble and rub Sabine’s arm, but I seek out Luke and swallow, itching to hear his voice.
“Please don’t lose,” he mumbles without lifting his eyes.
As if I’d let Anatole put his hands on him even if I lost. I’d sooner castrate the fucker and rot in the dungeons under the palace.
“Of course not,” I say softly, but when even that doesn’t earn me the grace of Luke’s approval, my feet sink deeper into the marble floor. I raise my head, staring straight backat the bastard on the other side of the crowd. Familiar faces are masks of indifference, amusement, rage, or excitement. It’s all a game to them, yet another performance on a big night, but my future with Luke is at stake, and I cannot fail him again.
Tristan orders the guards to stand watch around the impromptu battleground while my finely dressed guests crowd by the walls and climb onto the mezzanine on one side, eager for a great view of the spectacle to come.
They’re still shuffling around, still not ready, but I’m not here to provide entertainment. I pull out Gloomdancer, leaping toward the menace who’s spoiled this special day for me and my lover.
Anatole is ready and leans back while taking a swing at my chest.
Blood freezes in my veins when the tip of his rapier comes way too close to the flower, and I jump back so rapidly the heel of my shoe slips. The audience chuckles when I save myself by landing in an awkward scoot, with my left hand on the floor, but laughter is soon replaced by gasps when Anatole strikes.
Tension ignites every muscle, and I shoot up, slapping aside the blade of his rapier. His blue eyes widen, and he attempts to keep himself from falling farther toward me, but I grab his blade, pull on him, and slam my forehead against his.
The world spins in a rainbow of color as pain travels up my skull and all the way to the back, but when Anatole tries to twist his hands away, and pushes at the base of my fingers, I shove him back before he can break something.
Spilling his blood would also mean my loss, but if I play my cards right, I can give him a good battering without cuts. It’s supposed to be an honorable duel, but he lost all honor when he licked Luke’s ear.
Anatole looks back my way once there’s sufficient distance between us, and my heart leaps with joy when I recognize the tiny groove between his brows as a sign of worry. I might not be as skilled at fencing as I am at shadowcraft, but I have also never measured my abilities against his. He and the real Kyranis, however, dueled many times—for training, fun, or to resolve conflict, and I am positive my twin didn’t win a single time.
I am arealopponent, and Anatole is only now realizing he might have gotten himself into deep shit by provoking this fight. I should have demanded more than him keeping away from Luke, but maybe another opportunity will present itself in the future? I barely keep myself from grinning when my opponent falls back every time I attempt to closein on him. I am taller, stronger, and our clash earlier must have shown him that he needs to keep me at a distance if he is to have any chance of winning this.
Which he does not, because I am going to end him.
My perfect solution would have been to use my strength to overwhelm him, but with the stakes being so high, I’m tiptoeing around Anatole as we exchange jabs and cross swords while keeping our bodies so far apart neither of us can reach the other’s rose. It’s a game of time and focus, and while I imagine that some of my guests have already lost interest, I don’t let that sway me.
This duel might be about Luke’s safety, but I need to forget his existence for as long as I’m within Anatole’s range. At this point, the duel is about waiting one another out and seizing the perfect opportunity, but after avoiding several of Anatole’s traps, my sword hand is damp from the effort of needing to do this for so long.
I am exhausted, my throat is dry and going raw, and I want Luke in my arms—safe and reassured—but Anatole is equally tired. His next mistake makes my brain blare with dozens of bells, and when our swords cross and he comes one step too close, I seize the moment. I step on his foot to keep the bastard in place and dive in so fast my blade smoothly slides off his and shaves off the flower.
Anatole’s eyes go wide, and the audience utters a collective gasp just as I feel a sting on my chest. A hot drop rolls down my skin and is immediately cooled by air where my cousin has split my shirt. I grin, ready to raise my blade in triumph, because not only has this pathetic villain lost the duel but also shown lack of skill by cutting into my flesh.
When Anatole’s face brightens with a menacing grin, my own smile falters.
And as my friends, servants, and courtiers stare my way in horror, I realize there is nothing to celebrate.
My secret is out.
