Bring Me Their Hearts(79)
A blush floods me instantly. I’ve never seen a boy without his shirt, and it’s stupid, gods, it’s so stupid how warm my face is. I’m better than this—Y’shennria taught me to have a better lady’s mask than this. The hunger grows loud, slavering for the flesh, his flesh, but I focus on the long, strong line of his spine, his shoulder blades like the wings of a bird. I squint—there, dark against his golden skin is a tattoo of an actual black bird, its talons outstretched around his biceps, the wings extending to the edge of his left shoulder. An eagle.
“I told him it was tacky,” Malachite sighs. “But he just wouldn’t listen.”
“He— When did he get that?”
“He went to the Wildwatch one year, like nobles used to before the war. It was the king’s idea—meant to help him after Varia’s death, I guess. The Wildwatch all get tattoos of their first kill. His was a giant—”
“Black eagle,” I breathe. “That’s why they call him that?”
Malachite nods, grinning. “What, you thought it was because he looks like a bird?”
My nod is embarrassed, and Malachite cackles. The duel doesn’t slow, Lucien lunging in again. Malachite’s smile fades as he resumes watching the match with an intense focus.
“Who do you think will win?” I ask. He shakes his gray-haired head.
“Dunno. Grat is nowhere near as good as Luc. But Luc is…distracted.”
“By what?”
He snorts. “For all your smart quips, you’re awfully slow on the uptake.” He looks at me meaningfully.
Me? That beautiful, severe, lonely creature, distracted by me?
That doomed creature, the hunger snarls. Distracted by his predator?
The crowd lets out a gasp, and we rivet our eyes back to the fight. Grat is on the ground, his body just over the line. Lucien holds his blade pointed at Grat, eyes narrowed and chest heaving. A girl waves her arms madly, calling the match in the prince’s favor. The ladies cheer, the boys help Grat up from his place on the ground. Lucien strides toward Malachite and me, adrenaline and anger carving his face as he draws close.
“Grat is an opportunist,” Lucien murmurs just above my shoulder, breathing ragged. He smells of an intoxicating mix of sweat and fresh grass. “Don’t waste your time on him.”
“Is that a concerned warning or a princely command?” I ask, willing the heat in my face to die down, willing the hunger to stop screaming for him. Is this about what Grat shouted to me? Why is he so worked up about it? When he doesn’t say anything, I start: “Unfortunately, Your Highness, you don’t get to tell me who I can and can’t waste my time on.”
I draw my blade and step up to the dueling ring. I smile when I realize I’m against one of the Priseless twins. Revenge will be sweeter than summer honey.
“I’m not used to dueling girls, milady,” the twin sneers.
“I assure you, it’s no different than fighting a man,” I say, and launch an immediate strike to his left flank. He parries it just in time, staggering back with wide eyes. “Allow me to impart a bit of wisdom from my teacher; a blade is a blade—no matter who wields it, it can still cut.”
I knock him down with a feint to his knees, and his shock begins to melt into irritation.
I should rip you to bits for thinking you could ever hurt me, the hunger snarls. I tame it, tame my growing teeth, and settle for the human emotion of utter satisfaction. The twin jumps to his feet and strikes at me—overhead, obvious. I keep my distance—a sword might equal a playing field, but if I engage him close, he could easily overwhelm me with strength. I have to zone him away from my body, keep him at maximum distance. That’s where I’m strongest. That’s where I have to fight, or I risk being cut—and healing rapidly in front of this audience.
There are two things men will always believe about a woman: that she’s stupid, and that she’s weak. Today, as every day, I am neither of these things. But I pretend to get tired quickly, anyway. I pant and droop my sword minutely. Priseless takes it as a sign to lunge for me, overextending. I deflect his blow and step aside, the redirected momentum carrying him past the line. A girl announces my win with a squealing flourish, the ladies going wild. It takes a moment for the twin to stand, never bothering to bow to me before stomping off to his brother to nurse his wounded pride. I glance around at the crowd for Fione and find her in the very back. We lock eyes, hers kept light and amused, though I know she must be nervous inside. Or maybe she isn’t. Maybe she’s truly that confident. Maybe five years of gathering information in the most illicit ways makes something like this seem like child’s play.
“Where do you think you’re going, Lord Priseless?” Lucien’s deadly cool voice cuts across the grass. The twin’s blond head shoots up, fear creeping into his gaze. “You will bow to Lady Zera as the winner. Unless you wish to shirk tradition.”
Surely Malachite told Lucien about the Priseless twins’ thwarted attack on me. His eyes are sharper than the blade hanging at his side, as if he’s trying to cut the twin in half with his gaze alone. This is more than a decorum demand. This holds weight. He’s asking the boy to apologize to me, using his royalty as a weapon infinitely more deadly than Varia’s sword. Priseless walks back over to me and bows stiffly, and I bow back. Our eyes meet on the way up, his narrowed and clearly furious. He storms away, the nobles speculating over the exchange in whispers, though it doesn’t last long. Several ladies glom onto me as I move out of the arena and to the sidelines.