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Kerrigan glanced over at Senovara, the Gallian woman who had won the second fight. She was taller than Kerrigan. Though not by much. Her skin was fair with an almost burnt, leathery complexion, likely from too much sun. Her hair was almost straw blonde with light, nearly colorless eyes. She wore a hard expression and refused to look anywhere but straight ahead.
“Fun party, huh?” Kerrigan asked.
Senovara sneered at her. “I’m sure you’re used to it.”
“What does that mean?”
She made a slight gesture with her hand, as if to say, Isn’t it obvious? Senovara must have bought into the idea that Kerrigan was somehow a Doma competing in a fight to the death without magic, like an idiot. Kerrigan didn’t know what other explanation there was. But considering they were going to have to compete against each other in a matter of days, maybe it was better not to learn anything else about her than was necessary. It wasn’t like it was going to get easier to kill her.
Kerrigan turned her face fully forward again, lifting her eyes just above eye-level—that way, she didn’t have to see Tarcus or his wife. She let her mind drift as the dinner progressed and her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t eaten beforehand. Last time, food had been piled everywhere. Constantine had figured that she would eat with everyone else. His ignorance was definitely on display.
All she wanted was to forgo the show of all of this and fall back into Fordham’s arms. He had fresh scars over his heart. Whatever Iris had done to him, Kerrigan intended to unravel all those new problems. She had just gotten her broody, sad boy back from the brink of his father’s own abuse. The thought that anyone else could hurt him infuriated her.
After the meal was complete, Augustan came to his feet and thanked everyone assembled for attending. “It’s with a great honor that we have the competitors in attendance at our festivities. While we have eight with us at this time, only one will walk out of the arena victorious. I might be biased, as I have a competitor in the arena this year, but I believe it is going to be a fight to behold.”
Everyone applauded. Eyes went up and down the competition line. They sized each of them up, trying to figure out who would eventually become victorious. Likely who to place a bet on and who to try to sabotage. Kerrigan had learned that was all part of the game. None of the competition were people. No more than their staff or anyone else who wasn’t Domaran nobility.
Expendable.
They were all expendable. And Vulsan’s order for death matches proved how little they mattered. The nobility was eating it up.
One by one, the nobles stood from their seats and came over to inspect the competition up close. Kerrigan wanted nothing more than to leave. The theatrics were unnecessary. It had nothing to do with the actual fights that were coming. This was for their benefit alone.
And it meant Tarcus could get close to her again.
The last she’d seen him, she’d been escorted to Vulsan’s tent. He’d looked shocked at her appearance, courtesy of Myron’s beating, but he hadn’t yet known about the fact that she’d entered the tournament. Tonight would be different.
“What a pleasant surprise,” Tarcus said as he approached her, alone.
“Is it?” she asked.
“Frankly, no.” But he laughed as if it were all a joke. “You were supposed to be in my bed, not in the coliseum.”
“Tough luck.”
He narrowed his eyes at her insolence. “I pegged you for a stallion that needed breaking from the start.”
That at least was true.
“You weren’t wrong,” she agreed. His smile stretched at that, but she wasn’t done. “It just was never going to be you who did the breaking.”
Tarcus raised a hand, as if to backhand her across the face. A woman rumbled with laughter next to him. Her hand came over his, stopping him from what was clearly going to be a mistake.
“I wouldn’t try it with that one,” Iris said, coming into view. “She doesn’t seem the type to respond to corporal punishment.”
Tarcus seethed at the interruption. As if he would have been able to get that hit off. Kerrigan refused to take that sort of abuse. Her body had already coiled, ready to block the strike. She wasn’t stupid enough to lay a hand on him, but she wouldn’t let him get one on her either.
“I’ve never met anyone who wouldn’t get in line after a little slapping,” Tarcus said.
Iris eyed him and then laughed, releasing his hand. “Well, that’s why you don’t have gladiators, Valerii.”
He sniffed. “That was always your family’s favorite trick. We’re interested in different endeavors.”
Iris’s smile was deadly. “Oh, I’m sure. Like the last couple of whores you purchased and broke and discarded. Very lucrative.”
