Page 111 of Spar of Hearts
“Show him, Sven!”
Sven began to twist his wrists, forcing Morel to weaken his grip, then seized the opening and wrenched himself from the grapple, punching Morel in the gut. The wind rushed out of Morel, but he recovered and charged at Sven, antlers-first. Sven dodged with an elegant low slide, sweeping a leg out to trip Morel. Morel jumped just in time. Vulnerable and low, Morel kicked Sven in the jaw, sending him sliding back to the edge of the ring. Sven spat blood and a tooth, then rose for another shot.
It was gritty.
It was rough.
It was incredible!
The wild energy of the crowd was infectious. Anya soon found herself as one of the many shouting, fist-pumping spectators. Who she was cheering for, she didn’t know or care. She just wanted action. It was a fraction of what she felt when she hunted as a wolf, but it was just as addicting.
She’d been so engrossed, she hadn’t noticed Roderick slip away and come back with a flagon filled to the brim with golden liquid. He was as calm as she’d ever seen him, snapping her out of the wild crowd mentality.
“I thought you may be thirsty.” He handed her the cup. “It isn’t wine. They called it punsch, I think. But it smells delicious.”
Anya thanked him and ventured a tiny sip. A spectrum of flavors danced across her tongue: cardamom, molasses, even a hint of smoke. She smacked her lips and went for a second taste.
The commotion around them swelled to a new height.
“One!”
“Two!”
Shocks of awe rang out. Anya went up on her toes to get a better view. Morel shoved Sven off him, then leapt to his feet, inciting a bloody exchange of swings. Part of Morel’s left antler was hanging by a thread.
If the Elves were this brutal, what would the Weres be like? Anya looked up at Roderick, who was stretching his neck side to side like he was about to go for a refreshing dip.
“How are you so calm?”
“Because”—he brought his lips to her ear—“whether I win or lose, a beautiful princess will tend to my wounds.”
The soft puff of breath sent a chill down her spine.
A sudden, hollow thump silenced the crowd. Sven lay motionless on the ground, pinned beneath Morel. Morel gaped for breath with strings of saliva and blood connecting his lips.
“One!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“THAT’S MATCH!” The announcer slammed the bell with a hammer. “WE HAVE A NEW CHAMPION!”
“You did it!” The stag beside them screamed and jumped, shoving his way toward the ring.
“You’re damn right I did!” Morel leapt over the rope and mussed the stag’s hair.
Folk swarmed around the victor, hoisting him up to a chorus of cheers and claps. The announcer jumped right back into things. Behind him, a healer helped Sven limp to the sidelines.
“Next up! Rookie Weres, Roderick Bryson and Hans Ahlgren! Report to the ring in two minutes!”
Regret coiled in Anya’s gut. She could tend to Roderick’s wounds, but she wasn’t a miracle worker—though the affection in his eyes begged to differ.
“I should like a taste before I go,” Roderick said, pointedly dropping his gaze to the cup she held close to her chest.
She looked down at the cup. “Are you sure that’s—”
He silenced her with a deep, slow kiss that made sparks flicker across her skin. The cup slipped from her fingers as she melted under his touch. With a fierce tug, he pulled her flush against him, forcing their heaving chests against each other.
