Page 13 of The Warlord's Wildflower
“I—I just…needed some air,” My fingers curl tightly around the edge of my skirt.
Beatrice’s expression tightens, and she shoots Maeve a glare. “Why would you even bring her there, Maeve? You know how she is.”
Maeve sighs, clearly holding back whatever sharp retort she would like to say. “She wanted to come.”
Beatrice shakes her head. “It’s abloodsport,not a picnic!”
I don’t want them to argue. I hate when people fight, especially people I care about.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, though my voice comes out small and shaky. ”Really, I am. I just…I need a minute.”
Beatrice steps closer and wraps an arm around me, gentler now. “Come on, let’s go sit in the shade.”
I lean into her and nod gratefully, yet still feel like my heart is fluttering somewhere in my throat.
I close my eyes, but even behind my eyelids I see Fenric, and that awful moment when I dropped the ribbon, and how he’d looked at me when he’d asked me for it…like I was someone who mattered.
Chapter Eight
Fenric
The end of the day tastes like sweat and iron on my tongue, and I’ve never felt more alive.
My muscles ache in the best way. I’ve earned every bruise and scratch decorating my hide. The other warriors slap my back and grunt their congratulations, which in Minotaur-speak is basically poetry. I smirk, rolling my shoulders, soaking in the glory.
“Three matches. Three wins,” Rovan grins, tossing me a flask. “Still the youngest champion in the ring.”
“What can I say?” I flash him a grin and take a drink. “I excel at looking good and not dying.”
The others laugh, and I catch movement out of the corner of my eye—green velvet, swaying hips, a pouty mouth.Trouble.
Bridget.
“You were impressive today, Fenric,” she purrs. “You’ll be even more so tomorrow. Here.” She holds out a pale green ribbon. “My favor. For luck.”
I look down at it, then back up at her and grin like the rake I am. “That’s generous, Bridget. But, I’m waiting for someone else’s favor.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, even as her eyes go flat. “Please tell me it's not that skittish little thing from Havenmoor? The dark-haired one? She looked like she was going to faint before the first round.”
I chuckle, but it’s cold this time. I take a step toward her, just enough to remind her who I am beneath the charm. “If I were you, I’d choose my next words carefully.”
Bridget’s mouth tightens, and her eyes flash with rejection. It’s only for a second before she smirks.
“You’ll tire of the meek ones eventually. When you do, you’ll remember what it’s like to be challenged.” She flicks the ribbon toward me anyway. “Keep it,” She says with disdain. “You’ll need all the luck you can get.”
I catch the ribbon mid-air without looking at it, my grin not reaching my eyes.
“Did you miss the part when I was undefeated today?” I ask lazily. “Nobody who challenges me wins, Bridget. Not out there-” I nod toward the arena, “and definitely not here.”
She sneers at me, but finally turns and walks away without another word.
“You’re insane,” a voice mutters behind me.
I turn and see one of the other Bulls watching Bridget’s retreating backside with appreciation. He lets out a low whistle. “You just turned that down?”
I slap the ribbon to his chest with a grin. “Be my guest.”
I don’t hear his response; my eyes are already scanning the crowd again, looking for one face. One girl. I don’t see her, and my chest sinks a little as I make my way toward the raised platform where Dakar and the visiting Commander stand, deep in conversation. I catch the end of Dakar’s chuckle as I approach.
