“And you wonder why people aren’t more enamored with your charming personali—”
A commotion of doors creaking open cuts me off. Two men dressed in thin, full-bodied pantsuits enter and stride down the center aisle to the middle of the room. One is lithe and carrying a sword, the other is of a monstrous size and holding an ax. By the look of their muscles and hardened faces, they’re soldiers. Good ones.
If the cheering of the crowd before was feeble, it’s now loud and authentic sounding and apparently serves to commence the start of the two men engaging in hand-to-hand combat.
The first ax thrusts by the larger man swing wide.
I bite my tongue when the third connects with the smaller man’s shoulder. He falls back with a grunt, and the man brings his ax down again.
It crashes into the floor as the small man rolls out of the way before twisting to bring his sword up under the larger opponent’s arm.
This is entertainment? A blood sport?
Blood is already spilling on the floor when he pulls it back. He turns and, with another thrust of the sword, swipes at the giant’s neck.
My gut leaps into my chest and my mouth turns sour. If the large man hadn’t spun away in time, he’d be dead. I look around. This is what the vent boy was talking about—a community earned through power rather than differences.
Eogan, the real Eogan, would never have allowed something like this. At least not in recent weeks. But no one other than myself and Gwen appears to find it disturbing.
On and on the soldiers fight while my discomfort builds and I try to look away.
Parrying. Sparring. Until blood is coating every inch of their bodies and the floor in a circular pattern as they move. It’s even spattered on some of the onlookers.
The cutting and blood continue until the smaller, faster of the two men lands a jab near the other’s heart and drops him to his knees. I hold my breath. The victor stands over him, sword raised, and looks to Eogan.
I start to rise but Myles stops me. “Oh my dear, please keep your seat if not your head. This is their culture, not ours. You’ll only cause trouble for usss.”
“He’s going to kill him,” I hiss. I look down the table at the other delegates. They look odd sitting there, backs straight, faces stiff. Is this part of their job—not to react in political settings, or do they just assume it will be fine? Myles catches my eye and with his gaze indicates I should look up at Eogan. When I do, my chest unclenches. Eogan waves a hand and the fighter lowers his weapon. He bows to the king, then to the Assembly, and stays standing there as his defeated foe is escorted from the room.
I ease back in my seat but set my hand on my knives. It’s only when I peer up again at Draewulf that I realize he caught my reaction.
He tips his head at me and sneers in that hideous, wolfish style and, without looking away, twitches his hand to beckon one of the guards. He says something to the man before he moves his gaze from me back to the room.
A moment later, the doors open again. And what looks like a mound of furs is standing there. My tapping leg stops moving.
The woman beneath them begins peeling each one off, like the rind of rich fruit, and dropping them to the floor as she strides in. Almost exactly like she did two weeks ago when she was at Adora’s party.
And just like then, her entrance is met with an audible gasp across the room.
“What’s she doing here?” someone in the Assembly murmurs.
“How long has it been—six months—since Odion last summoned her?”
“I thought she betrayed us to Faelen!”
“It was a ruse to get her father, Draewulf, close to their king and ours. She betrayed us both!”
“Is Isobel still betrothed to King Ezeoha?”
The comments float through the room making the smile on Isobel’s face that much wider as she strolls down the center aisle toward her father, who inhabits the body of the man she’s the same age as and was once engaged to.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Draewulf announces, staring right at me. “May I present to you Lady Isobel.”
CHAPTER 16
BY THE TIME DRAEWULF’S DAUGHTER IS DOWN THE aisle and standing in the bloodied makeshift arena next to the victor in front of us, she’s stripped down to nothing more than a tight, glistening pantsuit made to hug every curve of her seductive, tall frame. A quarter of the Assembly is standing, and another third is grumbling. I’m silently cursing. She tosses a smile in my direction and that old jealousy flares along with the recollection of our last meeting when she tried to wrap her body around Eogan’s neck.
Myles slicks the sides of his hair and lets out a low whistle of enjoyment.
I slide one of my knives out beneath the table and prick his leg.
He jerks and says something uncouth, but I’m already looking past him to Draewulf, whose mocking, proud, fatherlike expression contorts the slightest bit. I freeze. The black in his eyes retracts into what appears to be pain and I swear his body jerks.