Page 26 of On Broken Bonds

I’m the smallest contender in the room by a mile. The next smallest is a slender man seated several tables away, but even he has at least a foot of height on me and far more visible muscle.

As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, Thorian’s voice cuts low across the table.

“After the feast, we’ll go before the gods. They’ll assess us. They may ask for demonstrations of skill. Then each team will be named, and the gods, nobles, and supernaturals will place their bets.”

My stomach tightens.

I can already imagine it.

Valtor’s booming laughter. The cold amusement in the eyes of the other gods. Their sharp little comments about the absurdity of someone like me standing among real competitors.

They will look at me and see exactly what I fear I am. A fragile noblewoman trying to survive a world she was never meant for. And no matter what they say, no matter how cruel or amused they might be, I’ll have to stand there with my head held high and bear it.

The thought is suddenly suffocating.

I reach for my wine and drain the rest in one swallow.

When I lower the goblet, Thorian is watching me too closely, his dark gaze fixed on my face as though he can somehow see every frantic thought careening through my mind. My breath catches, and I hate myself for it.

Before he can say anything, I push back from the table and rise to my feet.

“I’d like another roll,” I say, though our table remains laden with food.

The excuse is pitiful, but it’s all I can manage. The truth is that I need space. Space from the crushing weight of what’s coming. Space from the scrutiny of the gods. Space from this man who makes my thoughts unravel entirely too easily.

Though the food has been picked over for hours, it still looks abundant and perfectly arranged, an easy trick for the gods. I try not to think about how simple it’d be for them to feed my people, and instead reach for a roll.

When I do, my hand bumps another’s.

“My apologies,” I whisper, and when I look up, it’s into the green eyes of the man, the berserker, Thorian and I were just talking about.

“These rolls are too good,” the man says, his gaze holding mine as he reaches for one and drops it onto my plate. “I worry they are trying to fatten us up before the competition.”

Without thinking, my eyes drop down to his abdomen, which is fully visible through the large, open shirt he wears. His chest is well-defined, his muscles tightening as he shifts his weight, and my fingers itch to reach out and graze over them, feel their warmth. I only barely keep myself from muttering, You haven’t anything to worry about.

Instead, I say, “I worry the feast will be over before I’m ready to stop eating.”

That draws a laugh from him, low and easy. “We share that fear.”

The warmth of his smile catches me off guard. Unlike the sharp confidence of the vampire across the room or Thorian’s constant brooding intensity, there is something gentler about this man. Something open and unguarded that immediately puts me at ease.

His gaze drifts over me, curious rather than assessing.

“You don’t look like most competitors.”

I let out a quiet huff of laughter. “I imagine that is a very polite way of saying I look entirely unequipped for this.”

His mouth curves. “I was going to say unexpected.”

The answer sends an odd little flutter through me.

He glances toward my empty seat, then back to me. “So what made you enter? Most people don’t volunteer for the gods’ games unless they’ve got something worth risking everything for.”

“I thought everyone already knew,” I say.

“I heard about you,” he admits. “But only bits and pieces. Mostly gossip. You know how these things go. By now, I’ve probably heard six different reasons you volunteered.”

Despite myself, I smile. “And which one did you believe?”