Lexa
I duck under his punch and twirl around him, sending my fist into his side. My knuckles meet rock-hard flesh and bounce back. He doesn’t so much as grunt in pain. He whirls, catching me by the arm in a grip like iron and yanks me toward him before I can find my bearings.
It takes an instant. My life flashes before my eyes as he flips me into the air and slams me down on my back so hard the air rushes from my lungs, my body tingling with shock.
He straddles me, pressing his forearm against my chest like a dead weight. I break past the pain and darkening vision and snatch his shirt with my free hand, my other twisted painfully behind my back. I catch the fabric. It tears over his shoulder, but his other hand grips my wrist and flattens my arm to the ground above my head, my muscles strained to their tearing point.
Mere seconds have passed. That’s all it took. Seconds for a man to finally beat me in a fight.
I gasp for breath but smile around the taste of blood. “Fucking prick!”
“Did your mother teach you to talk like that?” His voice is deep, thickly accented, a rolling kind of sound that flutters through my brain like a drumbeat–sensual. But his eyes are hard as steel as he looks down at me, drinking me in, taking in the little details he couldn’t see from the balcony, I suspect.
“Come, take the knife out of her pocket, Chastan,” he orders, and his man scurries over to us, fishing for the blade I hid there, and snatches it away.
“We don’t steal in the Glade,” the man says through gritted teeth.
I spit blood at him. He grins.
“You’re a wild thing.” He turns to look down at my legs, which he has pinned to the ground, his left lower leg angled to bend over my knees. “Not little, by any means. How much do you weigh?”
I try to spit again, but he presses down on my chest until my heart slows.
“Calm down,” he commands, but I just grin, my teeth covered in blood.
“I fear,” I rasp around the tightness in my chest, “We have to marry. You just paid my bride price.”
He narrows his eyes, but all around us the men shift from foot to foot uncomfortably, those standing now gazing down at the show with similar expressions of… confusion.
Chastan’s muttered, “Bride price? Who is her father? Is he here in the Glade?” sends my mind into a sudden tailspin.
I relax against my will, and Kaleb–because this man can only be the Alpha King everyone keeps mentioning–notices. He eases up on the pressure for several seconds at a time until he finally rises, shoving me once for emphasis, and steps over me.
I roll to my side and cough blood while trying to fill my lungs.
“No more hand-to-hand. She’s too advanced for that,” he says to the group of battered men along the wall. “When sparring with her, shield yourselves, perhaps? Did no one think to wear their armor this morning?”
“It’s a hundred fucking degrees,” one of the men whispers under his breath, and Kaleb’s head snaps in his direction.
Colin gasps as he comes back to his body, his hand flying to his mouth, where a thick, black bruise is spreading all along his jaw. He’s checking to make sure he has all of his teeth, I think.
I pant, desperately filling my lungs, and curl onto my hands and knees before wobbling to my feet.
I’m covered in dirt. Dry and red, it stains my clothes. Kaleb, however, continues to walk from man to man, inspecting, scanning, looking them in the eyes until they turn away from his gaze.
Yeah, this fucking bastard is definitely an Alpha. The born kind. I’m sure he was a real fucking problem as a kid, too. Just like me.
I bet he was a biter.
I bet he still is.
He turns his back to face Chastan, and the air leaves my lungs again.
His shirt is flayed open, the fabric falling down his back in a perfect V, highlighting tattoos and… two long, vertical scars on either side of his spine. They’re flat and silver against his tan skin, healed like they’ve been there for a very long time.
He had wings once.
That’s the only logical explanation.
He turns back to me with a glower so intense I feel the need to back up several steps, but I force my body to remain where it is.
“Where did you learn to fight? Who was your trainer?”
I tuck my chin in, looking down my nose at him as he stalks in my direction, but the closer he gets, the more I have to look up. He’s taller than my dad, which is a feat. It’s damn near impossible, I think, because my dad is by far the tallest person in my family of giants. But this man is tall, like the fae. His pointed ears, his rugged, but unnatural, beauty….
I raise my hands as my memories pour over Kieran, my cousin Brie’s son. I think of her mate, Logan, and my stomach curls until it knots.
“Where,” he asks again, his voice low and commanding, “did you learn to fight?”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Then answer,” he demands, arching a dark, straight brow. “Where are you from?”
I tilt my chin toward the sky to continue looking him in the eyes as he closes the distance between us. Through my peripheral vision, I see the men I just beat into a pulp start to saunter off, babying sprained limbs.
“My mother,” I say as he postures before me, crossing his muscled arms over his chest. Sweat gleams on his skin, and I feel oddly lightheaded.
“And her pack?”
“My father’s pack is Silverhide and my mother is Endovan–”
He snatches my arm and pulls me closer, leaning down to ask in a rough whisper, “What did you just say?” against my temple.
His scent is warm and rich–spiced with everything male. Everything all-consuming and heated. My body lurches, refusing to back away enough, though my heart tangles over the sudden memory of Austin. I tug away, but he pulls me back, tightening his grip.
“My mother is from Endova, in the Deadlands–”
“Never,” he breathes, his breath hot against my skin, “say that word again.” He suddenly shoves me back as my mind pours over his chosen tone. A dire warning is laced through each word, but his face is shockingly neutral as he turns from me to say to Avery, “I’ve secured the hunt. Your men will have dusk to dawn before they’re forced out of their wolf forms. Make sure they make use of it.”
Avery nods and takes those words as a dismissal warning. The other men leave as well, filing out of the sparring ring, but a group of young boys–children, by all means–are gathered at the doorway, pushing and shoving to get a better look at their Alpha.
And me.
Chastan hangs back, unsure whether to follow.
Kaleb turns back to me, looking down at me with so much contempt I can taste it. It’s bitter on my tongue. He sizes me up again–looking me up and down–and from this distance I can see the green and gray flakes around his irises–just specks, like scattered gemstones against a blanket of gold.
He glances at the children present but doesn’t dismiss them.
“Why is En–”
“No,” he says sternly.
I clamp my lips shut for a single second before asking, “Why do you speak the Dead Tongue?”
He looks at me, stares at me in a way that makes me feel like he can see… everything.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sword.” He snaps his fingers, and Chastan tosses him an actual sword–something thin but sharp. I glance at the dummy swords still resting on the ground several feet away, but he shakes his head. “You’re past that.”
“I won’t need a sword once my wolf powers return.”
“They won’t.” He lunges back several feet and swings the sword.
I duck at the last possible second, gasping. “HEY!”
“Fae prefer swordplay. It’s more regal to them. More sophisticated.” He points the tip at my chest before skillfully swinging it to rest at his side.
“I don’t know how to use a sword,” I counter.
“Nor a spear, I noticed, after that sloppy show in the Culling.”
“I killed that man!”
“Barely. Had you not taken a breath–”
“How close were you watching?–”
“I’m going to make sure everything is moving along for the funerals tonight,” Chastan practically shouts. He won’t look Kaleb in the eyes as he scurries out of the ring, shooing the little boys out of his way.
It doesn’t matter. Kaleb’s eyes are locked on mine until Chastan closes the metal doors and locks us in together, then he swings again, jabbing. I jump back.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
He tosses the sword, his eyes suddenly wild as he glances at the door. “Where are you from? Don’t fuck with me. Who trained you for this? Who entered you into the Culling? Your master?”
I shake my head. “I–I told you where I’m from. I wasn’t trained for this. I’m a captain in Queen Maeve’s royal army–”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the Deadlands, for fuck’s sake! I was taken off the shore of Teskha–”
He raises a hand to silence me. “I will not stand for folklore. You are under my protection now, in my pack, in my city. The odds are already stacked against us, but I took a chance on you rather than letting them throw you to the demons in the king’s court–”
“Where are my friends?” I rasp over his outburst. My back hits the wall. I edge to the side, toward the bow I saw hanging when I first came here.
He follows my movements along the wall as my senses scream danger. This man–he’s a killer. Someone who lives and breathes violence.
But there’s something soft, almost confused, in his eyes as I rip the bow from the wall, scattering arrows from the quiver like I had during the Culling. Before he can blink, I load an arrow, pointing the tip directly at his heart. A kill shot.
“You can’t be from Endova,” he says, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t so much as look down at the arrow pointed at his chest.
“I am. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe. Where am I exactly? Your man, Chastan, wouldn’t tell me.”
He stares at me, barely breathing.
“Where am I? Why have I been taken? I know you know. You were on the balcony with the king. You knew my name–”
“Your friends,” he rasps, eyes narrowing, “At least the blonde one. She’s safe.”
“I don’t believe you–”
“Then believe this. You are not safe at all. These games are forced, rigged. You will be fighting for your life the entire time against a victor that’s already been chosen as the champion.”
“I don’t plan on staying.”
“You cannot escape this place,” he says so quietly I nearly miss it. “I don’t believe you’re from the homeland. I think you hit your head. I think you’re delusional. A liar, and I have a pack to protect. I’ll take you out of the games myself if I must.”
I tremble from holding my arrow primed for so long. “I am the daughter of Alpha King Ryan and Luna Aviva of the Deadlands, granddaughter of the Patriarch Jerrod of Endova. Cousin of the Queen Maeve of the Firestones of Eastonia. I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of the fae. I will go home. I will save my warriors, and I will leave fire in my wake!”
He stares silently, his eyes like polished gems but darkening with every passing second.
“Where am I?” I repeat, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Am I in Emberfyll? Somewhere nearby?”
He closes his eyes and winces at the mention of Emberfyll. “Put down your bow.”
“No. Tell me where I am. Explain all of this.”
He takes a step forward, and I fire. He catches the arrow like it’s nothing, like he’s had thousands of arrows aimed at his heart. He tosses it to the ground and catches me before I can turn for more.