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My stomach bottoms out. A strong hand latches onto my forearm, squeezing so tight as to wrench a yip from my lips. The air around me moves, tightening. Suddenly, I’m lightheaded.
“You,” Sigurd all but snarls.
The air steadies, and I suck in a breath of air gone thin. He leans over my chair, so close I catch a whiff of citrusy pine. My skin flushes at his nearness, at the crowd as their cheers fade into breathless silence.
I turn, blinking at the furious king still clenching my arm.
A sharp prick grazes my skin, and I catch a flash of claws before they recede.
The announcer calls my name again, a question in his voice.I’m not there. They’re looking for me.
Sigurd’s feral expression, the blue glow of his eyes—oh my God, they’re actually glowing—dims and evens out.
Then all at once, he’s the smiling king. He lifts my arm, drawing me to stand with him, and guides me to the edge of the box. But the grin stretching across his face can’t mask the fury simmering behind his eyes as he turns to me.
“Wren Dawson,” he says loud enough for the crowd to hear and raises my hand high.
His words are for them, for the second round of cheers that nearly shakes the stone below my feet. But that look, it’s all for me, and it’s a promise: we’ll talk about this later.
It’s sure to be an unpleasant discussion.
“I’ll see her to the field.” My uncle stands behind Sigurd, his hand outstretched and waiting for mine.
In a show of gentlemanly courtesy, Sigurd passes my hand into my uncle’s waiting one.
This is so much worse than I ever imagined.
Chapter 9
Everyonewepass,literallyeveryone, stops and stares. Whispered words—and some way too loud—chase after us. The worst reaction of them all was Sigurd’s.
“He’s pissed,” I whisper as we make our way down flights of stairs.
“Yeah.” Uncle Mark coughs. “Yes, he is.”
My heart thunders, growing more insistent as we near the field. I’m doing this. This is happening. It’s what I wanted, but oh my God, now that it’s here, I can barely put one foot in front of the other.
We reach the edge of the field, and my uncle gives my hand a little pat.
“Good luck,” he says.
I’m going to need it. My pulse beats in my throat as I clasp his hand in mine. “Thank you. So much. Even if nothing comes of it. If I lose today…”
I drop his hand and stare at my boots.
Sigurd will be pissed once he figures out how I got into this contest. Hawke probably will be too. And Moria, who strangely didn’t even say a word. I might have alienated Uncle Mark from his whole fae family, and he still did it for me.
“I believe in you, Wren. If I can do it, you can.” He grasps my shoulder, giving it a firm shake. His eyes shine with something. Pride?
My nod is shaky. “Thank you. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I—”
“Soon.” He glances back toward the field. “But now you have a competition to win. The first game starts in minutes.”
Right. No pressure. “I’ll, uh, see you later then.”
Sweat breaks out on my neck as I stride across the field. It’s not hot or humid—the temperature is pretty darn perfect, actually, but it might as well be a steamy day in August under a blazing noon sun.
Everyone stares at me. My boots are suddenly clunky. The earrings pull at my ears. All I want to do is run back to the edge of the stadium and find somewhere to hide.
