Lincoln takes the weapon firmly in his hands. “Let me think.” His gaze slowly runs over my body. Suddenly, I’m very aware that my dragon-scale cat suit leaves zero to the male imagination. Even worse, it’s really-really cold in the Arena today. Great.
The Prince sets the point of the sword onto the Arena floor, his hands rest atop the red pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I recall?” His heavy-lidded eyes lock onto mine, one slate-blue and one wheat-brown. A challenge lurks behind them.
My inner demon sparks to life, not with anger this time, but with something just as powerful. My tail strokes my shoulder, as if warning me to stop. I slap the arrowhead end and lean in closer to Lincoln.
I’m always up for a challenge.
I plaster on a fake smile. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a true Prince.” I turn to the King. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”
Lincoln swings the weapon until the pummel rests in his right hand, the deadly end against his left palm. The Prince and I start a kind of staring match in the middle of the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to knock him to the ground.
King Connor clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”
Lincoln’s upper lip curls. “Sure, father.” He takes a deep breath. “This quasi girl–”
“Myla. My name’s Myla.” Anger hums through every bone in my body.
The Prince’s jaw falls open a moment. I don’t think he gets corrected very often. I glance at the King; laughter dances in his mismatched eyes.
“Yes, Myla.” If Lincoln could spit my name out, I think he would have. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning, certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”
“Just name the time and place, buddy.” My body buzzes with rage.
I pause. My every word has been echoing throughout the Arena. Really, really loudly. I inspect the crowd. The angels sit still, their mouths contracted into an ‘o’ shape. The demons have actually stopped their ongoing battles for the best seats; they all face the Arena floor. Thousands of eyes fix in our direction. Part of me knows I should be humiliated right now, but the rest of me is too jacked up on rage to care.
My gaze flips between Lincoln and Connor. “Okay, how do we end this?”
The King rubs his chin, hiding a smile. “Perhaps if you set your hands like this?” He raises his arms to chest height, palms extended.
“Oh yeah.” I set my hands to match the King’s. Lincoln’s face is the model of calm as he balances the sword between my open palms. I let out a sigh. This nightmare of a morning is almost over. Then, Prince’s fingertips brush the skin between my gloves and sleeves. Where our bare skin touches, I feel an electric pulse of pleasure.
What. The. Hell.
I quickly pull my hands away, curling the sword against my chest. “Thank you.” I quickly glance into Lincoln’s face, seeing his fa?ade of calm crack for a moment, revealing a look that mixes shock and desire.
So, he felt the connection too, but he still thinks I’m a disgusting demon. Great. My face burns with anger and humiliation.
The King and Prince bow slightly, then walk away. It takes forever for them to stride across the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to kick Lincoln in the back of the head.
The next few minutes are a blur of marching heralds, blaring trumpets, and smiling courtiers. At some point, Walker pulls me into the safety and shadows of a nearby archway. His voice is low and gentle. “Are you ready to portal home, Myla?”
My eyes burn with feelings I don’t know how to name. “Walker, I was ready an hour ago.” I’m seconds away from bursting into tears. Some warrior.
“Don’t take it personally, Myla. Most thrax have never met a quasi. They don’t understand that you’re not a demon.”
“That didn’t bother me.” My voice breaks so much, I sound like I could be yodeling. Crap, I hate it when I do that. “Okay, that totally hurt like Hell.”
Walker wraps me into a hug. His body is warm and firm, not at all the chilly undeadly-ness that I expected. “Do you want me to beat him up for you?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Not this time, Walker.” My head melts into his shoulder. “Thanks for offering, though.”
“Any time.”
Chapter Seven
With all the extra ceremonial blah-blah-blah at the match, I don’t get to school until lunch is almost over. I quickly fill my tray and scan the cafeteria, looking for my–and Cissy’s–favorite table for two. I quickly find it, but now it seats three.
Zeke has moved in. Resentment twists in my belly. Zeke gets all of Cissy’s attention after school, and I have to listen to her yammer about him non-stop during the day. Lunch is the last scrap of girl-time left in my life.
Gritting my teeth, I step up to the table and wait for some acknowledgement of my existence from Cissy and Zeke. It doesn’t happen.