He’d never seen anyone shoot like her.
For the hunt, she only killed one small squirrel, the arrow she used cleanly skewering through its neck. Instant death. While others brought back larger game, some more than one. It was enough to see her through the competition.
Wolfe himself was the fourth hunter to return from the forest, following the obstacle course. He brought back a wild hog, the largest game amongst the group.
Rui had looked upon his kill with a twist of her lips, showing her disdain, before looking away again.
She didn’t look at him at all.
He was glad.
And yet he fumed.
He could hardly blame her for ignoring his presence, when he went out of his way to ignore her. But he did.
He wanted her to seek him out. Look his way.
He wanted to see her eyes. Find desire and passion in them.
To know that she still wanted him. Burned for him. The way he burned for her.
To know that it hadn’t simply been the scratching of an itch, the satisfying of a curiosity with a big, scarred, scary brute.
Did she still wear his essence on her skin? Could she still taste him on her tongue?
Bloody hell, but he was a mess.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it, for the heralds had begun announcing the morning’s winners and sword fight pairings.
Sixteen contestants stepped forward, one by one, to receive the nod of acknowledgement from the king and queen in the royal stands.
Well, the queen, if not the king.
Arthur remained silent and immobile in his seat, his face lined beyond his physical age, eyes sunken with dark bags underneath. Guinevere looked beautiful and perfect as always. So much so that there was a glow around her person. She looked like the angels that filled children’s stories.
But looks were deceiving, as Wolfe well knew.
He casually surveyed the opponents in his group.
He was glad that Lancelot and Modred were in his set instead of Rui’s. Gawain was the strongest adversary in hers. They were all Guinevere’s henchmen, and for that reason, Wolfe was more wary of them than others.
Amongst the three of them, Lancelot was the strongest sword master. Wolfe was not guaranteed to best him based on skill alone. But there was a lot to be said for motivation and will power. Wolfe had those in spades.
While an expert swordsman, Modred’s skill was inferior to Wolfe’s. But he needed to be on guard. Perhaps even more so than with Lancelot. For Modred never fought fair. Wolfe wouldn’t put it past him to use poison-edged swords.
Gawain was stronger and more experienced than Modred, less naturally talented than Lancelot. His greatest strength was power. The man was shorter by a head than Wolfe, as most men were, even those already considered tall.
But he was broad and thick. His muscles weren’t simply for show. His strength was legendary. One hit was usually all it took for Gawain to fell an enemy.
Wolfe wanted to warn Rui, but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate it. The female had much pride. Deservedly so.
Quickly, Wolfe dispatched his opponents in the first two matches. They both yielded at the end, bruised but not overly bloody. Wolfe didn’t maim or kill unless he had to. These were not enemies of his, after all, merely men he had to get past on his way to the prize.
He glanced across the massive dirt arena to where Rui was, as he rested briefly before his next match.
Just in time to catch her yawn.
She stood in profile watching two other matches in progress, her arms crossed over her chest. On the back of her makeshift bench there were already three splotches of red paint, marking three wins.