His Princess (A Royal Romance)(136)

“If I defeat you in single combat, I’m going to kill you,” Quentin says calmly.

“You have no chance of winning. It is only a game. That glimmer of hope will make you take the chance anyway, because if you don’t, all three will be slaves. The mother will be dead before long anyway, it’s these two that will endure and suffer, cursing the day you entered their lives.”

“You want me to fight you,” Quentin says. “Gladly. Let’s go.”

“No brawling. I had something more elegant in mind. Lily.”

That must be the blonde woman’s name, Lily. She steps away and returns with a long case. What are they going to do, duel? No, they’re not guns inside.

They’re swords, resting in scabbards. Freaking swords. Medieval broadswords. Santiago takes one and draws it from the scabbard with a flourish. It may look like an antique but it’s brand new, the edge so sharp it blurs in the light.

I realize that Santiago’s guests are forming a wide circle, to watch this.

Quentin takes the other one. He draws it and throws the scabbard aside, tests the weight of the blade in his hands, and then finally touches the edge with his thumb.

“This sword is blunt.”

“I know,” Santiago says, and lunges at him.

I can tell from the haphazard way he swings it that Quentin has no experience with that weapon, only strength, speed, and reflexes on his side.

Santiago has all of those and the skill. It’s like watching a ten-year-old jumping on a trampoline next to an Olympic gymnast. The difference is visible, inescapable.

The woman, Lily, walks behind us.

She leans just a little and whispers.

“Wait for me. I’m going to get you out of here.”

I stiffen. What did she say?

She doesn’t repeat herself. I replay it in my head, over the sound of blood rushing in my ears. Did she really say that? Am I losing my mind?

Santiago is toying with Quentin, who barely parries or dodges his swings and thrusts, and whose own are lazily batted aside. His sword is useless for cuts and he knows it, so he swings with power, trying to use it as a bludgeon. Santiago meets power with speed and grace, and the first cut appears on Quentin’s arm, trailing blood down his skin.

“Are you wondering if I’ve poisoned the blade, Quentin?” Santiago taunts.

“Shut up,” Quentin retorts.

He lunges and Santiago toys with him. I can feel every eye in the room on them. I can sense this Lily woman behind me, too, tensing, her breathing growing even as her hands disappear in her pockets.

There are two guards standing to either side of us, more standing around. I don’t know how many could be in the building.

“When I kick your chair, get down,” she whispers, just as a clang of metal almost drowns her out.

Quentin is bleeding from half a dozen shallow cuts, even one on his cheek. Santiago is unmarked, strolling around Quentin with a bullfighter’s grace, light on the balls of his feet. It’s a contest he knows he’s going to win.

“I have long waited to see the light drain from your eyes, Quentin. How does it feel to know it’s hopeless?”

Quentin bellows and lunges at him, swinging wildly, and Santiago ducks out of the way and swats the blows aside. Quentin throws himself into it with brute force, grunting and snarling, and his blunted blade slashes across Santiago’s side.

It does nothing, but that hit should have hurt.

“Body armor,” Quentin gasps. “You’re wearing f*cking body armor. You’re cheating.”

“The blunt blade wasn’t cheating?” Santiago chuckles, and comes at him again.

Quentin directs all his swings at Santiago’s head, trying to land a blow in a vulnerable spot, and fails. He picks up more cuts along the way. His arms are slick with blood. It splatters on the floor when he moves, and Santiago hasn’t even cut him deep yet.

God, he’s doing it on purpose. Bleeding him out.

Lily kicks my chair, and in the same instant, draws a pair of pistols from her jacket and shoots two of the guards, standing on either side of us, in the head.

I throw myself down and pull the girls to the floor. The world goes crazy. More shooting, people throwing themselves to the concrete, people falling, women in cages screaming.

Santiago turns and Quentin takes the sword, two-handed, and swings it so the flat of the blade hits Santiago right below the shoulder blades. The metal snaps and the upper half of the sword goes flying.

Bastard felt that. He stumbles, swings around, and Quentin ducks out of the way like he’s getting a second wind.

Santiago starts to run, coming our way.

My daughter Karen kicks her legs out and trips him. He goes sprawling forward as Quentin ducks down to the floor. The shooting hammers my ears as I pull the kids together, trying to roll on top of them and shield them.

Santiago turns and sits up, raises the sword, and readies to bring it down right on my head. Quentin appears and catches the blow with the broken half of the sword he still carries, and shoulders into Santiago, howling.

Quentin goes down on top of him and they roll, wrestling.

There’s a gun on the floor. It’s got a strap on it. I wrap my fingers around it and pull, scraping it across the floor.

Santiago rolls on top of Quentin. He has a little blade in his hand, and his gloved fist is slick with blood. Oh my God, he stabbed Quentin.