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Prove myself.
Win the tournament.
Have a future with Isaac.
Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted?
After all, I had been willing to come up here, to trust Isaac, to make a fool of myself.
But there was something about another person maliciously tugging on the strings of my life and turning me into a puppet. She wanted to use me, and I couldn’t bring myself to agree.
I was a person, not a possession. Maybe it was my rebellious nature, or the wine, but I said, “Those are a lot of demands. Can I ask what you did to prove yourself? Bribe your way in?”
It was like watching one of those horrible homemade bombs blowing up in my face. Her features clouded over and metaphorical steam plumed from her ears. “How dare you?” She lifted a finger and shoved it right in my face. “My namerecommended me. My scores recommended me when the Marriage Council selected my match. I could get behind a famous love match, but Isaac will not have you as you are,” she seethed.
I took a step back from her, suddenly unable to deflect her cutting words. Words I had called down upon my head.
She followed me and continued her assault. “You are an orphan of some second-rate family from the country. I do not care about your golden magic unless it means you can win the tournament. I’ve spent the last month learning everything I can about it. Do you ever wonder why you have it? Do you know what kind of mixed blood concoction you are, mestiza? Don’t confuse the fiction of those awful tabloids with scripture, you are most certainly not a princess,” she barked. “You are a monster.”
Half-breed. Her words had graduated from slaps to daggers straight to my heart. What happened next couldn’t be prevented—I needed to protect myself from her assertion of dominance over me. I wasn’t some mangy dog in the streets.
In one smooth step, I wrapped one hand around the woman’s mouth. “Shut. Up,” I said as I bit back tears.
Something inside of me whispered it was true, I was a mutt.
She bit down on my palm and pulled back. Martina de León was not polite or composed like all Élites were supposed to be; she was a feral animal.
“Touch me again and I will make sure you never make it out of the tournament,” she snapped. “I speak to you as I wish.”
My comfortable future had already crashed to the ground and was burning in front of me. Isaac’s mother stomped on the ashes as she raised her hand and slapped me clean across the cheek. Then she grabbed my shawl and threw it onto the ground. I was exposed before her. She wanted to shame me.
The genteel myth of the Élite had crumbled alongside everything else. These people were truly ruthless, unbridled maniacs drunk on power. Playing at being the creators and enders of life.
I wanted nothing to do with them.
I clenched my fists, staring up at her with fire in my eyes and a vibrant red handprint glowing upon my cheek. “You better pray I do not win the Blood Tournaments, Martina. You might find that when you threaten a caged animal, it can kill.”
My threat was sloppy and potent. It hung in the air between us, sucking all the air into a vacuum. My chest heaved, but I found no relief in the biting wind.
Martina de León looked at me with such disdain, such hatred, that I could’ve been incinerated on the spot.
“I knew you weren’t good enough for him,” she spat.
Then the door opened once again. My heart leapt, thinking that perhaps Isaac had come back to rescue me from this horrible interaction.
It was Antonio. My brain stuttered. What was he doing here?
I still wasn’t decent. My arms crossed over my chest just as he flicked his gaze from me to Martina.
“Martina, Hugo sent me to fetch you. He said that Isaac isn’t feeling well and you need to leave,” my mentor said with a gracious and apologetic bow of his head.
Martina straightened herself, and the icy wind soothed my burning cheeks while I scrambled for the shawl.
She returned to the kind, sweet woman that had greeted us when we’d first arrived. “Oh, Antonio. How lovely of you! I’ll head down now.” She glanced over her shoulder to look at me. Her expression was light, but her eyes were hot with rage. “Buenas noches, Renata,” she said quickly and walked through the door.
Antonio stood there, watching me. His eyebrows furrowed. How much had he seen?
“Why were you arguing with Martina de León on the balcony?” His tone was as angry as it was careful. It showed his resolve to understand whatever had happened before he cast judgment, even though I could see him discreetly peering at the ruined dress.
