Page 104 of Bonds of Pain
I realize I’ve been holding my breath, my hand clutching the railing so tightly my knuckles have gone white. I force air into my lungs and meet his concerned gaze.
“What if he loses?” I whisper, voicing my fear aloud for the first time.
Ares’s expression darkens. “He won’t.”
But the uncertainty in his eyes betrays his confidence. For the first time since I arrived at the palace, I see genuine fear in the face of Logan’s enforcer. And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything else.
Through the glass of the royal viewing box, I watch as Prince Logan enters the arena below. The crowd’s roar is deafening, even muffled by the thick glass separating us from the masses. Logan stands tall in his ceremonial armor, gleaming gold andwhite under the midday sun. Despite the distance, I can see the confidence in his posture, the arrogance in the tilt of his chin.
From the opposite entrance comes another man—taller, broader, his armor a deep crimson trimmed with silver. Even from here, I can see he outweighs Logan by at least fifty pounds of pure muscle.
“Prince Viktor,” Ares mutters beside me. “Logan’s cousin from the Western Province.”
My fingers tighten on the armrest of my chair. “He’s huge.”
“Size isn’t everything in combat,” Poe says, his voice carefully neutral. “Logan is faster.”
I turn away from the glass, unable to watch for a moment. The viewing box is luxurious—plush seats arranged in tiered rows facing the massive window, a full bar along the back wall stocked with expensive liquors, and platters of food that no one has touched.
My eyes scan the room until they land on something that makes my heart skip. There, on a small table near the bar, sits a glass bowl filled with a distinctive pink powder.
Blush.
The same drug that stripped away my inhibitions at the card game. The same substance that led to my night with Cillian and Logan. That memory makes heat rise to my cheeks.
Ares follows my gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Want some? Might take the edge off.”
Before I can answer, a roar from the crowd pulls my attention back to the arena. Logan and Viktor are circling each other, stripped of their ceremonial armor now. Both wear only loose trousers, their torsos bare. Attendants gather the discarded armor and weapons, carrying them from the sand.
“Hand-to-hand,” Poe comments, his voice tight. “It’s going to get bloody fast.”
I stare at the two men below, my stomach churning. Viktor’s muscles ripple with each movement, his sheer mass intimidating. Logan seems almost delicate in comparison, though I know from experience how deceptive that impression can be.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? For Logan to suffer? For his world to crumble around him? So why does panic grip my chest at the thought of him falling?
I turn away again, my eyes drifting back to the pink powder. The promise of numbness, of escaping these conflicting emotions, is suddenly tempting.
Ares stands beside me now, holding out a tiny silver spoon with a small mound of blush on it. His expression is sympathetic, understanding.
“Just a little might help,” he says softly. “Take the edge off.”
The sound of bodies impacting on the arena floor, amplified by the speaker in the viewing box, makes me flinch. I can’t watch this. Every nerve in my body feels stretched to a breaking point as Logan and Prince Viktor slam into each other with brutal force.
Another impact, another roar from the crowd. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the sounds more vivid.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, mostly to myself.
I reach for a glass of lemonade from the bar, the cool condensation a welcome distraction against my overheated skin. The tiny silver spoon Ares offered still rests in his outstretched palm, the mound of pink powder glittering under the viewing box lights.
Panic is rising. I feel it like a drumbeat in my chest, in the blood rushing to my head.
Before I can second-guess myself, I tip the spoon into my lemonade, watching the blush dissolve into swirls of pink. Notenough. I reach for the bowl and add another small spoonful directly to my drink.
Ares chuckles ruefully, watching me stir the concoction with my finger. “Taking the scenic route to oblivion, I see.”
He helps himself to a generous pinch of blush, tossing it directly onto his tongue before chasing it with bourbon. His eyes find mine over the rim of his glass, something like understanding passing between us.
“Want some?” Ares asks Poe, gesturing toward the bowl.
