Wolfe’s lips quirked involuntarily at her efficiency.
Of course,she was a master swordsman. Gawain was likely no match for her.
His smile fell.
He still worried.
She was…she wasn’t his, but he worried.
At that, she turned her head toward him, meeting his gaze across the distance.
He couldn’t see her eyes with the sun behind her. She had no expression on her face at all to indicate what she might be thinking or feeling. Her posture was aloof and rigid, and it didn’t change in the slightest as she looked upon him.
He didn’t know how his own face looked to her; he simply stared back. Couldn’t help it.
Until, after long moments, she turned away again, her attention back on the contestants still fighting to have the right to fight her.
“Wolfe, Champion of Tristan, House of Cornubia, step forth.”
The herald’s voice brought Wolfe’s attention back to the matter at hand.
He took a swig of wine and rose from his bench, walking into a circular, center arena directly below the royal stands, where the king, queen and sorceress sat watching.
“Lancelot du Lac, step forth.”
The golden-haired man did so gracefully, his movements smooth and entirely at ease. Belying his deadly skill in combat.
Lancelot’s beauty was as legendary as Guinevere’s. Everyone “knew” the pair was having an adulterous affair right beneath King Arthur’s nose. Wolfe didn’t doubt the rumors. They didn’t bother hiding their preference for each other in public settings.
Wolfe’s brows lowered ominously as a thought came unbidden to his mind.
If another man touched Rui the way Lancelot touched Guinevere, Wolfe would cut off his hands, his balls and his head. In that order.
Well, he wouldn’t. Because she wasn’t his. But if she were…
Except she wasn’t.
Wolfe would do well to remember that.
In any case, Arthur did nothing. Occasionally, his unnaturally haggard face registered some small, tepid emotion. But when his lady wife consorted openly with other men, he didn’t even bat an eye.
They faced each other in the arena, the herald’s voice announcing the commencement of the match fading into the background.
Lancelot stared steadily into Wolfe’s eyes, a faint smirk on his lips.
Anyone seeing them next to each other might liken Lancelot to an angel of God, and Wolfe, to a devil from Hell.
Where the queen’s favorite champion was fair, blond, blue-eyed and lean, Wolfe was olive-skinned, dark, amber-eyed and muscular. Despite the number of battles Lancelot had led and won, despite his undefeated status in tournaments, the man had not a single scar to show for it.
He seemed untouchable.
Wolfe, on the other hand, wore his near-death struggles very clearly on his skin.
There were stories that Lancelot was enchanted. He couldn’t lose. His legend preceded him, and often made men quake in their boots at the mere thought of facing him in combat.
Wolfe only saw a pretty boy with cold, killer eyes. Perhaps he was enchanted; Wolfe could sense magic wrapped around his person. But Wolfe never feared sorcery. He hunted supernatural monsters and fuckingdragonsfor a living.
“Luck be with you, Wolfe Pendragon,” the other man said.