Page 53 of Thief of Hearts

My stomach sank. The thought made me extremely uncomfortable.

I pushed it out of my mind and continued making my way over to where Zain was fighting. And it was surprisingly enjoyable to watch him fight. He was fast and clever. He had the strength to easily defeat his opponent, but he didn’t end the match.

Because he was playing with the other man. The way a cat would with a mouse, before finally making the kill.

Putting on a show for the very enthusiastic crowd.

Zain had an admirable style. He was adaptable, resourceful, and determined.

I heard my name called—it was time for my first match. I made my way back over to the announcer and became aware of women cheering for me. I waved to them and the cheers got louder.

While I didn’t need the encouragement, it was certainly nice to have.

Our referee instructed us to get into position. He carried a rod, which he would use against us if we broke the rules. I put my arms up into a fighting position, where they would protect my head and neck from kicks. My opponent was a bit shorter than me, and had scars along his chest and arms. As if he’d been repeatedly wounded in battle. He was a good enough warrior to have survived, but he was soon going to learn that it wouldn’t matter.

The referee slammed his rod against the ground and said, “Begin!”

With an actual enemy, I would have let the fight go on until I was ready to finish it. Learned his strengths and weaknesses, and then used both against him.

But I didn’t have the luxury of time.

So I finished the match quickly. It only took a few seconds for me to get him into a chokehold that had him blacking out. He should have submitted, but he refused.

I supposed he didn’t want to be beaten by a woman.

Even though he was.

The rest of the day seemed to fly by in a sea of ankle bending and arm twisting and punches and holds and locks and grappling and striking. Some men took their defeats gracefully; most did not. I was threatened more than once and repeatedly challenged to fight them at a later date, which seemed silly to me—if they couldn’t beat me in pankration, how could they ever hope to beat me in an actual fight?

With my current match ending, I was again declared the winner, to the crowd’s delight.

The man I’d just bested muttered as he limped away.

Two more fights to go and then I would face the other finalist. My next match was announced.

I would be fighting Zain.

We stood across from each other, arms raised. I did my best not to stare at his nearly naked body.

“You can submit now instead of trying to fight me,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t want you to hurt me, either,” he said with a teasing grin. “It’s too bad we’re wearing clothes for this one.”

Only I was wearing clothes. He was wearing . . . a linen wrapped around his pelvis. “Yes, it is too bad because then it would be so much easier to distract you.”

“That is true,” he agreed. “But I have to win at least two events in order to have a chance of beating you.”

“I would say good luck with that, but I wouldn’t want to insult you.”

“You aren’t going to let me win?” he asked in mock outrage.

“No. If our situations were reversed, would you let me win?”

“Of course.”

“Liar,” I said. When he laughed, I added, “I’m glad you’re amusing yourself.”

“I live to amuse myself, illora. No one else is offering to do it.”