She should protest. But she didn’t. She nodded, letting him wind his strong arms around her and gather her close. His heat and scent enveloped her, a dangerous combination, and she sort of sagged against him. Not intentionally. It happened without thought. Beneath her cheek, his heart raced.
“Hurry,” she rasped. She needed this to end, like, now, before she did something worse than burrow closer.
He slid his hands to her backside and squeezed, reminding her of the last time they’d stood like this. How close they’d come to crossing a line they’d never be able to uncross. “I could hold you here until release becomes your price for our bargain.”
Ahhh. Diabolical Astra. This had been his plan all along. “A game of sexual chicken?” she asked, sliding her palms up his chest. “While the fight rages to become the center of your blessing task, no less.”
He petted her hair. A simple action, but her eyes shut, a feeling of homecoming washing over her. Almost better than—No. No, no, no. Her eyelids popped open. Game over. Roux won.
“I’ll pay your toll,” she stated, dropping her arms to her sides. Cold invaded her veins. “Consider us even.”
He frowned, evincing confusion, but gave a little nod. “Very well.” He took her hand, flashed her to the ledge of the well, and stepped into the black hole in the center. Down they fell, whisking through shadows like bricks tossed into water.
Her heart jumped into her throat.
The second they passed a layer of blue light, they slowed, floating to a stop on a foundation of compacted dirt and smooth rocks.
Blythe immediately extracted her fingers from the Astra’s. From his strength and heat. His scent. The unexpected comfort of him.
A gaggle of voices offered a distraction, drawing her gaze. Oh, wow. Okay. Underground fight club indeed. She stood in a massive torch-lit cave that was both tall and wide. Taller and wider than many mortal buildings. The dazzling crystal ceiling—the same crystals as the crown—couldn’t be reached if a dozen ladders were stacked on top of each other.
Up ahead was what looked to be a Roman coliseum of old, ringed by stone bleachers. A canopied dais topped the north section—a dais she, Roux, and Tonka climbed countless steps to reach. The other councilmembers were already there and seated. Minus the manticore, of course. And surprise, surprise, there were only two open seats. One meant for Tonka the harpy, the other meant for Roux. Message received. Blythe was unwanted.
Only a handful of spectators sat in the bleachers but countless others waited on the sand below, armed and clearly eager for the first battle to commence.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Tonka asked, motioning to the cavern. “The original captives of Ation still talk about the dragons who torched the realm’s surface, causing widespread destruction. While the fire-breathers hibernated within the walls of this underground labyrinth, our strongest soldiers dug down to hunt them. Once the creatures were eradicated, the settlers turned the area into the fight zone.”
Forget the chairs. Blythe moved to the edge of the dais. There was no rail to perch upon, only a long drop to splat.
Roux sidled up to her side, and she halfway expected him to wind an arm around her waist to ensure she stayed put. When he didn’t...yeah, disappointment set in. Which disappointed her! Her hatred might have gotten buried, but it hadn’t faded. The seeds still grew in the rich soil of her heart.
Get it together, girl.
Tonka joined them at the ledge and shouted down at the masses, “Who’s ready to make her dreams come true?”
Deafening cheers rang out. As they died down, the harpy proclaimed, “Imma count down to ten. Anyone in the ring when I finish is officially entered in the tournament. There will be no backtracking afterward. The only way out is death or victory. Now is the time to change your mind and hustle into the stands.”
More cheers. Then, the countdown began. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.”
Between the “seven” and “six,” a swift click-clack of footsteps caught Blythe’s attention. In unison, she and Roux stiffened and spun. Too late. A large beast—Penelope’s beast, Amal—was already airborne and mere inches away.
It slammed into Blythe, ramming her belly with its snout. As she hurled over the ledge, pinpricks of warmth registered at the collision site. The warmth quickly mutated into streams of fire that poured through her veins.
Down she tumbled, unable to flail. Unable to move, period. Her muscles had petrified. Courtesy of Amal’s toxin?
“Five. Four.”
Roux must have calculated the trajectory of her fall, as well as her landing, because he flashed to the bleachers, extending his reach to catch her. If not for a horde of wraiths who materialized above him, each projecting Blythe’s image, causing him to shift his stance.
“Three. Two.”
Blythe landed in the sand. Impact bruised her brain, stole her breath, and broke several of her bones. She twitched for a millisecond, shedding the toxin, then lumbered to her feet.
“One.”
New cheers sounded all around her. She lifted her gaze to Roux’s.
Eyes of bloodred narrowed to slits. Because he knew what she did: the wraith had proven more diabolical than expected.