But before I can so much as figure out what hurts—or more accurately, what doesn’t hurt, since that’s a much smaller list—Cyrus has lowered the magical force field protecting the playing area just enough to let himself in and is now moving quickly across the grass.
I don’t want to get up, but no way am I meeting this man facedown on the ground. Much less on my knees. So I dig into whatever last reserve of strength I have, and I push myself up and stand. I’m wobbly, but I’m on my feet.
As our gazes connect, I can’t help but pick up on a disturbing amount of rage in his eyes, so much so that I expect him to start screaming and running full tilt at me any second.
But he’s got too much restraint for that.
Instead, he walks slowly, deliberately up to me in his three-piece Tom Ford suit and tie, and he doesn’t stop until he’s only a couple of inches away.
The closer he gets, the more unsettling it becomes to be this close to him. Partly because he looks like a thirty-year-old version of Jaxon and Hudson—a little more scruff and a lot more sophistication, with an attitude that commands obedience—and partly because, when our gazes meet, there’s something in the depths of his that gives me the creeps on a whole new level.
I start to take a step back—several steps, actually—but that’s exactly what he’s going for. So I force myself to stand my ground, lift my chin, and keep my gaze locked on his despite my misgivings.
I expect my small rebellion to set him off, but instead it brings an ever-so-slight smile to his face as he looks me over. He never says a word, never makes a move toward me, and still I feel all kinds of gross by the time his gaze travels from my muddy shoes back up to my face.
Maybe I should have taken that step back after all—onto the next mountain, if possible. But it’s too late now. Any move on my part will look like retreat, and I’m not about to give him the satisfaction…or the power.
All of a sudden, the entire arena begins to shake, the ground rolling and jerking beneath my feet for a few seconds before settling back down again.
“So. You did it,” he says, eyebrow arched and index finger running along his lower lip in that way some men do when they think they’ve found a snack.
As if.
“I did,” I answer, lip curled in contempt even as every instinct I have is screaming at me to run, that a deadly predator has me in his sights. “And now I’m going to leave.”
I go to move past him, and he reaches out, grabs my elbow.
The arena starts to shake again, and I glance over at my friends, see Jaxon’s and Hudson’s frantic faces, and know instinctively that Jaxon is the cause of this. He’s fighting his father’s protection dome, trying desperately to break through it.
The ground shifts again, and Cyrus adjusts his stance—and his grip—on my arm. I brace myself for pain, for punishment, for something, but his touch remains light even as he leans down to whisper in my ear.
“You don’t really think I’m going to let you leave, do you?”
“I think you don’t have a choice,” I answer. “I played your little game and I won. And now I’m walking away. From you. From this arena. From everything.”
I start to pull my elbow from his grip, and that’s when his fingers tighten, pinning me in place. And there’s nothing I can do. I’m fighting a fatigue so powerful, my entire body is shaking with the effort to stay on my feet. “You think I don’t know you cheated?”
“Do you think I care what you know?” I shoot back.
“I designed this Trial. There’s no way you beat it on your own.” His fingers dig into my elbow a little more with each word that he hisses.
I don’t flinch or pull away, even though the pain is getting worse by the second. Instead, I return his smile and answer, “I find it interesting that you felt the need to put together the hardest Trial ever for a half-human girl who’s only had her powers about two weeks. Overkill much?”
“Are you saying you didn’t cheat?” he asks.
“Are you saying you didn’t?” I counter.
Because I suppose, technically, I did cheat a little—I used Hudson’s power when only mates can help each other.
But that’s nothing compared to what they did to ensure that I failed. They deliberately broke my mating bond minutes before I walked into the arena.
They deprived me of a mate, not just for this ridiculous game but for the rest of my life as well.
They broke me…and Jaxon.
And Cyrus thinks he’s going to come down here and complain that I cheated? Sorry, so not sorry.
“Do you think this means you’re actually going to get a seat on the Circle, little girl?” It’s said with a snarl, though his face never changes—and neither does the pressure of his fingers on my elbow. “No gargoyle will ever sit on it again. Not while I’m king. Not after what they did.”
I don’t know what he means, and I don’t care. Not now, maybe not ever.
Which is why I snarl back, “I don’t give a shit about your Circle. I never have.” I’m fed up with this conversation, fed up with him, fed up with this whole damn world and its arbitrary rules and out-of-control power grabs. “So why don’t you and your little group of playmates pack up your stuff and go home? Nobody wants you here.”
“You don’t get to tell me to go home.” He starts to circle around behind me, and I know something is coming, can feel it in my bones.
But I’m still not backing down from this man. I can’t. More, I won’t. Instead, I reach for my gargoyle. For the shiny platinum thread that has kept me safe for days now.
“You don’t get to tell me anything,” he continues.
I turn my head so I can track his movements. Just because I refuse to back down to him doesn’t mean I’d ever let him out of my sight—especially when he’s this close. “I feel exactly the same way, Cyrus.” I deliberately use his name just to piss him off.
It works, his voice turning to ice as he says, “You know we can’t both win, right, Grace?”
I would congratulate myself for getting under his skin, but there’s something in his tone that tells me I pissed him off too much. Something that puts me on high alert and has me pulling on the platinum thread. I start to shift even though I’m exhausted and I know it will cost me. But I’m too worn out; my gargoyle is sluggish.
And that’s when Cyrus strikes, fangs flashing a millisecond before he sinks them into my neck, right over my carotid artery.
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