Bring Me Their Hearts(80)

“That was amazing, Lady Zera!”

“I’ve never seen a woman duel before! You must teach me your style of the blade!”

Their touches to my arm, their smiles—all I can think is how quickly they’d turn to screams of horror if they knew the real me. The hunger hisses at them all, flashing images of their broken bodies before me. I force my grin and say little, lest the shadows eke from between my sharpening teeth. A crowd has gathered—nearly twice the size since we started, mostly comprised of interested nobles and passerby lawguards. But still no Gavik. Fione waits patiently. I manage to peel the girls off and return to Lucien and Malachite.

“So?” I ask cheerfully. “What did we think?”

“I think Luc has some competition in marrying you.” Malachite smirks. “From Lord Grat, and now from several very infatuated ladies.”

Lucien snorts. “Let them have her. She’s nothing but a font of trouble and irritation.”

I swallow my laugh. He uses his position as prince to force Priseless to apologize to me one moment, and then he turns around and insults me the next. Fione was right—he does like to play tough.

“You forgot ‘beauty,’” I correct him sternly. “And ‘elegance.’”

“I’ll be sure to add those to the list when you attain them.”

“Okay! That’s it!” I throw my hands up. “I’ve decided you have exactly three seconds to start being nice to me.”

“Three whole seconds.” Malachite whistles. “You’d better get on it quick, Lucien.”

Lucien rolls his eyes. “Shall I have her hanged for daring to tell me what to do?”

“You’d better bury me deep,” I threaten playfully. “Or I’ll haunt you for the rest of my life.”

“Tempting,” Lucien drawls. “But I’ll pass. I can barely stand the way you haunt me now.”

“Romantically haunt, like in a bard’s tale,” I ascertain.

“No.”

“Yes,” I correct.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Please, infants,” Malachite groans. “Enough—Mother needs peace and quiet.”

“So you can watch these lords duel sloppily?” Lucien scoffs. “And here I thought you enjoyed quality entertainment.”

“They are fairly bad,” I muse in agreement, watching two lords whiff each other’s parries. “You don’t teach the girls to think, and you don’t teach the boys to duel. What does Vetris teach its children?”

“Sucking up,” Malachite answers. “With a dash of binge drinking and a sprinkle of fashion sense.”

Lucien and I laugh in tandem, our eyes catching and disengaging all in the same moment. No matter how I might’ve slighted his advances yesterday, it still feels good to laugh together like this.

Finally, after watching clumsy noble after clumsy noble strike each other down, the only two duelists left are Lucien and me. It’s then I see a familiar face in the noble crowd, toward the very back. White hair and eyes like water. The archduke is here. I did it. I look around for Fione, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She must be making her move.

A girl steps forward, waving her kerchief and announcing with a loud voice: “Esteemed guests, this is our final match! In the challenger’s ring, we have our surprise contestant, Lady Zera Y’shennria!”

Applause rings out. The girl motions to the prince, still shirtless, his tattoo stark.

“And on the opposite side we have your future king, the Black Eagle of the West, Prince Lucien Drevenis d’Malvane!”

Amid the cheering, the prince and I face each other. We raise our swords and bow. I force myself to keep my eyes on his face, not his body. I won’t let something as shallow as his skin distract me, no matter how loud the hunger keens.

“You fight well,” he says softly. His gaze flickers to my wrist. The wound on the back of his hand is all but healed, only a scab left. “But I’m not going to hold back.”

“What a relief. I was about to tell you the same thing.”

He lashes out with a blow so quick I barely see it, but I raise my sword and parry with a half second to spare. Our blades grind against each other’s, our steel screeching in tandem.

Slide your blade between his ribs, now, the hunger snarls. Taste him, feel his blood on your hands.

I slip beneath his guard and put distance between us before I lunge in again. My strikes aim true and fast, never letting him catch his breath. He refuses to strike out at me. No matter how hard I go for him, he hesitates. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was hesitating because I’m a girl in some misguided attempt at treating me “well.” But then I lunge too far, my foot catching itself, and he jolts forward with a response. I reposition myself quickly, and he backs off.

“You won’t win waiting for me to make a mistake like the others,” I lilt.

“We all make mistakes,” he insists.

“I’ve made only one in my life,” I murmur under my breath. “And that was meeting you.”

Just when I think he’s going into defensive mode again, he thrusts in to me. The force behind his blow is enough to make my arms go numb, my father’s sword crying out in pain as Varia’s sword bites into it. He’s good. Old God’s eye—he’s much better than I thought. I can’t move an inch; I can’t give him an inch.