More slowly, Cuan raised his own swords. He paused, blades not quite crossing yet. His eyes flicking from one man to the other.
Oh no, no, no. Tamsin hadn’t seen Cuan hesitate before, not even when he’d faced the huge black knight. That can’t be good.
“Such a pity that you did not mate my beast. You would have been legally entitled to help him yourself.” Maeve idly swirled her wine. “Of course, had you mated him, he would not be fighting at all.”
There had to be something she could do. Tamsin looked around wildly, but nothing presented itself. There wasn’t even a fruit platter she could throw.
Maeve raised her voice. “I grow bored, beast. Will you entertain us or not?”
Cuan turned his head. He didn’t even glance at Maeve. He looked straight past the elf queen, to where Tamsin sat.
He smiled.
…Huh?
Tamsin blinked, wondering if she’d imagined that slight, brief curve. Cuan was already turning away, facing his opponents once more.
His swords rang together.
He was shifting even before the sound died away. His two opponents had barely started to move forward when Cuan reared up in stallion form.
Tamsin’s mouth fell open.
When Cuan had shapeshifted before, his hide had always been pure, midnight black…but no longer. Now, faemarks burned across the stallion’s powerful shoulders, exactly the same as when he was a man.
Cuan charged, his markings glowing with power. He smashed into the two men like a wrecking ball. The blond went down instantly, howling, clutching broken ribs.
The red-head echoed his mate’s scream, even though he’d managed to evade Cuan’s hooves himself. He flung himself at Cuan, murder in his eyes—only to be snatched out of the air by the jaws of a wolf.
Power blazed along Cuan’s fur. In his other duels, he’d always seemed to be pulling his blows, trying not to injure his opponents—but not now. He shook the red-head like a dog with a rabbit.
With a final contemptuous flick, he dropped the limp form on top of the other man. The next instant, Cuan stood on two feet again, his blades leveled at the men’s throats.
The whole fight had taken less than ten seconds.
The hall was dead silent.
Cuan spat blood—not his own—onto the white marble tiles. His feral stare raked the frozen court. His eyes were the wolf’s eyes, gold and fierce.
No glamour!
That faint, telltale shimmer of magic was gone. Everyone could see those eyes now. He stood before the high sidhe, showing them his true self at last.
“I am done with holding myself back.”
He did not raise his voice. He didn’t have to. That growl reverberated in Tamsin’s bones. It spoke to some deep, primal part of her. Some ancestral memory of huddling close to a feeble fire; watching eyes like Cuan’s, circling, shining.
“You call me a beast,” Cuan went on, in that dark, deadly voice. “So be it.”
He dropped his burning stare to his defeated opponents. The blond man flinched, cradling the redhead protectively. The man was still alive—Tamsin could see him breathing—but his armor was stained with blood. Cuan’s fangs had torn through solid steel as easily as he’d shredded her clothes last night.
“This is the last time,” Cuan said softly, “that I will show mercy.”
Cuan flicked his blades up, stepping back. He did not bow to the two men.
“I will allow no one to take my mate from me.” He looked over the court once more, expression cold with contempt. “Challenge me, and I shall rip out your throat.”