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Coward.
I reached one arm above my head, catching the wrist in the other hand and stretching before repeating the stretch on the other side.
Slow, methodical claps rang out across the training ring.
As the red dust cleared, settling back onto the ground, I saw him.
His thick dark hair was tucked back, secured at the base of his neck as if he might have to spring into action at any second. The lines of his jaw, so broad and strong, promised mercilessness in battle. The flame of hate in my belly crackled and burned, but it was not alone. It danced with lust, just as hot and even more dangerous.
My gut clenched. How long had he been lurking in the shadows, watching? One match? Three?
Maybe after the night with the skoupuma, he’d finally decided to see just what I could do for myself.
Everything, I wanted to scream at him.
I released my arms slowly, knowing that raised over my head like this my breasts must look amazing. I was much too far away to see that burning desire in his eyes, but I knew it was there nonetheless. I’d use it against him every chance I got.
If that made heat pool between my legs that had nothing to do with the sweat of exertion… well, I’d already admitted that I wanted him. Both to Arran and to myself. But I would not beg, ever.
He could go to his death in a thousand years with his hand around his own cock for all I cared.
Arran stalked closer, eyeing Lyrena, her chest still rising and falling heavily. Then he looked over the rest of the guards, granting Evander a particularly nasty sneer. At least Arran and I could agree on one thing.
“Will none of you take her on?” he asked, stopping in the center of one of archways, arms crossed. His head nearly touched the center stone, painted a glowing cerulean blue.
Even though he’d been here for weeks, I did not think I would ever grow used to seeing him in the goldstone palace. His dark hair, dark clothes, dark aura were so at odds with the airy heat of this place. What was his body like, beneath all of those layers?
“She’s that terrifying, your queen?” But ask he spoke, Arran was not looking at the guards any longer. He was staring at me.
“If you step into the training yard, you have to fight her,” Gawayn advised from his post against one of the pillars.
Arran ran his thumb along the head of his battle axe, still holstered at his waist. “Is she bound by the same agreement?”
His lips pouted out slightly, considering me.
His eyes asked—will you fight me, princess?
I flipped my long braid back down my back, unsheathing my twin curved blades in answer.
“Well, then,” Arran murmured, his eyes never leaving mine as he stepped into the ring.
In the periphery of my vision, I saw Guinevere walking over to the water barrel, saying something to Lyrena I could have surely heard if my ears were not pounding with my own blood.
The glance in their direction was a mistake. In that half a breath, Arran had unfastened the buttons at the top of his black wool tunic.
What was he doing?
“Not everyone is as adequately dressed as you are for the weather,” he said to my questioning eyes.
I frowned, realizing what was happening a second before he tossed the wool tunic to the ground.
“I see you’ve adopted a lighter undershirt, at least,” I said. Thank the Ancestors, the words were not as choked as they felt coming out of my throat.
But Arran did not stop at the woolen tunic. He pulled open the laces holding the linen undershirt in place, bearing a wide triangle of deeply tanned, golden brown chest. I could see the sweat already gleaming across his sculpted pectorals, the top of his etched abdomen peeking out… a promise of what lay beneath that billowing linen undershirt.
Standing in the middle of the sparring yard, staring at the most magnificent male specimen I’d ever seen, my hands began to sweat.
I was in such deep shit.
