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Their fear spreads to me as I take him in. He’s almost completely changed. His body now more wolf than Fae. His back is hunched, dark fur jutting from his arms and legs. His predatory eyes are unrecognizable.
Even from here I can feel his animalistic hatred, the deep-seated, almost instinctive need to kill.
I watch in horror as he charges the prince and a bloodier battle ensues. This time, the prince strikes flesh and bone with his blade. Rhaegar howls, a mixture of rage and pain.
The breeze carries the metallic odor of blood.
Rhaegar’s shifter form weakens, and he starts to wildly throw balls of fire into the arena, sending the onlookers scrambling backward. Most miss the prince, but a few get close enough to burn. Only the moment they near the prince, the moment the orange of the fire tinges his high cheekbones, the flames sizzle and die, snuffed out by whatever he fancies.
Falling sleet. A wintry breeze. Buckets of snow. The world seems at his disposal, the icy landscape his to harness.
It’s a slaughter. I close my eyes, force them back open. Rhaegar’s last chance is the whip.
Pull it out!
A chaotic jumble of emotions spills through me. What if he loses? What if the prince kills him? What if he kills the prince? That can’t happen. All of these options are crap.
No—I push the negative thoughts from my mind, squeezing the tree trunk so hard the bark gouges my frozen cheeks. The pain, numbed by the cold, works to extinguish the violent flurry of what-ifs raging inside me.
A rush of unease hits me as the mood changes. The crowd’s cries for blood grows louder, more insistent. The air becomes charged with energy and magic and the promise of death. So strong, so real I can almost see it, like a beastly shadow creeping closer.
I shouldn’t be here. The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. Once the battle is over, whatever the result, these woods will be full of Fae turned savage by bloodlust.
But my gaze rivets to the two Fae in the arena, mesmerized by their fierce fight to the death. By their contrast. Winter and Summer. Ice and Fire. Brute force and cunning skill.
The prince has finally decided to use his magic offensively, and his theatrics brighten the sky. Bursts of police-siren blue magic erupt repeatedly until, even with my eyes closed, the flares etch into my eyelids. Fireworks of ice detonate near Rhaegar, tiny frozen slivers peppering his flesh until it’s slick with red.
But none of it really hurts him. The magic meant more to impress than injure.
What is the prince doing?
Limping, Rhaegar stumbles over to Basil. Rhaegar’s body is tired, broken, the only trace left of his wolf form a few patches of fur and incisors. Basil tries to hide his worried expression as he hands over the last weapon.
Wrapping my arms around the tree trunk, I crane my head to see what it is. Did he take my advice? Anticipation wets my palms inside my gloves, the muscles between my shoulder blades tight as rocks.
The prince is too busy grandstanding to the crowd, his back to Rhaegar, to notice the new weapon. A hush falls as everyone watches to see what it might be.
“Hey, Ice Prince,” Rhaegar calls. His voice is raspy and tired and whispers of pain, but there’s a newfound hopefulness there too.
Beautiful face still wearing that clever smile, the Winter Prince turns back to his foe, slowly, driving the blade of carelessness deeper into Rhaegar and then twisting it for good measure. Saying he is nothing.
But Rhaegar has one last trick up his sleeve. As he jerks his hand back, I spy the long end of the whip. Little white clusters of something twine around its length. Snowdrops.
The crack of the whip snapping toward the prince is so loud that I gasp. The end strikes his cheek, opening up a layer of pale flesh. Surprise twitches across his lips as he watches the snowdrops scatter over the snow.
From his blood or the whip, I haven’t a clue.
I wait for something to happen. For the prince to laugh at Rhaegar, or use his power. Instead, his posture changes, his strong shoulders drooping as he falters back. The insolence and conceit he’s worn like armor for the entire bout fall away, replaced by a much more potent emotion: fear.
The prince is afraid. He cowers, falling to his knees. A look of absolute terror transforms his expression.
The change from powerful to vulnerable cuts deep inside me. I grip the tree, confused by my change in heart.
I want Rhaegar to win. I want to command my fate. I want to be paired with a keeper who doesn’t hurt me and confuse me and send me spiraling out of control.
But I don’t want the prince to die.
Stupid Fae rules. Stupid Fae everything. I hate them at this moment more than I’ve ever hated anyone. Rhaegar and the prince and the whole lot of them.
