by Jenna Moreci
Her gaze strayed, traveling down to his mouth. She shook Her head.
Leila flopped back onto the bed, giggling as Tobias climbed on top of Her. His carved figure, his smile, the paint smudged across his skin—all of it pulled Her in, begging to be touched. She slid Her fingers down the planes of his chest, while he latched onto Her hips, his hard cock digging into Her thigh. Her throat tightened, and Her hands worked of their own bidding, latching onto his bulge.
Tobias flinched, and She broke Her hold. “Apologies.” Her face burned. “Oh my God, was that horribly presumptuous of me?”
Tobias stared at Her, wide-eyed and silent. A second later, he dove forward, kissing Her roughly and thrusting Her hand back onto his cock.
You said You wouldn’t. Not yet. The thought was there, a nagging fly in the back of Her mind, but that didn’t stop Her from stroking his manhood over the thin layer of linen. Desire swirled in Her belly, Her heart beating wildly. They were alone. Now was the perfect time, and God, She wanted him. She grabbed his waistband, ready to set him free, to unleash his beast, to behold his cock for the first time.
He has no idea who You are.
“Tobias.” She stopped short. “Wait.”
Tobias looked down at Her, panting. “What’s wrong?”
I’m The Savior. The words sat on Her tongue, ready. Say it.
Footsteps sounded outside.
“Someone’s coming,” She said.
They bolted upright, situating their clothes as the footfalls grew louder. Leila flicked Tobias’s temple.
“Ow—” He winced.
The door swung open as Leila grabbed Tobias’s head, examining it. “I don’t know what you’re moaning about, you look perfectly fine to me.” She turned to the intruder—only Flynn. “Oh, hello. Don’t mind me, I was just leaving.”
She left in a hurry, fighting to stifle Her grin until She was safely out of sight. The thrill of the moment still danced within Her as She headed through the palace, and soon She couldn’t control the smile spreading across Her face.
She peeled around the corner, then came to a halt. Kaleo leaned against the wall paces away, a half-eaten apple in hand. Chuckling, he eyed Her up and down.
“Clever little thing, aren’t You?”
He knew. Of course he did; Brontes naturally told him. She nearly reached for Her injured shoulder but stopped Herself, turning the way She had come and escaping Kaleo’s line of sight.
Nyx retrieved Her from Her idle wandering, ushering Her to the royal bathhouse while chastising Her for the paint on Her dress. Leila half-listened, thankful for the silence Her other servants offered. Damaris and Hemera wore looks of discomfort, while Faun pursed Her lips, visibly perturbed.
“All done.” Faun’s voice was hard as she tied Leila’s dress into place. “You’re to meet the rest of Your court in the throne room. The challenge will begin shortly.”
“Challenge?” Leila said. “What challenge?”
“Today’s the Sovereign’s Choice.”
The clanking of metal plates echoed off the walls, and a line of guards appeared at the entrance of the bathhouse.
“And there they are,” Faun mumbled. “Your trusted escorts.”
“Make way.” Asher shoved to the front of the line, his golden locks peeking from his crested helmet. “I am Her Holiness’s personal guard. I will see Her there.” He nodded at Leila. “Come. I’ll stay by Your side.”
Dumbfounded, Leila glanced between the embittered Faun and beckoning Asher, then hesitantly joined him.
The group traveled in strained silence through the palace, drawing more unwanted attention. Asher placed a hand on the small of Her back, his touch piquing Her nerves.
He spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry, Leila. I’ll protect You.”
“Protect Me from what?” She said.
“I’ve fought diligently to uphold Your honor. No one will believe the rumors. No one with any sense, at least.”
“What rumors?”
The throne room appeared—ancient and worn, the floor uneven stone, the pews faded wood. It hadn’t been renovated, let alone used, in decades, an outdated convention for monarchs with too much ego to spare. Monarchs like Brontes, who sat in the golden throne at the head of the room.
Leila’s throne.
Her throne was fashioned like the rays of the sun, a symbol of Her divine light sullied by Her father’s ass. His one eye locked onto Her, and he gestured lazily at the side of the room. “Over there. With Your sisters.”
Delphi, Pippa, and Cosima were seated in the back of the pews, and Leila took root at Delphi’s side. Palace hands trickled into the room, filling the empty seats, and as the drone of voices filled the air, Leila whispered with Her sisters.
“What’s going on?”
Delphi sat rigid. “The Sovereign’s Choice.”
“I know that, but…” Leila looked out at the accumulating people. “All this? An audience?”
“He’s drunk with power,” Delphi muttered.
“And we’re here in the back row. Not even Cosima joins him at the head?”
Cosima scoffed. “Don’t be silly, it’s the Sovereign’s Choice. Why would The Savior join him?”
“That’s Your throne.” Pippa wrinkled her nose. “Why is he sitting there?”
“It’s a formality, dove,” Cosima said.
Pippa turned to Leila. “He stole Your throne.”
“Nonsense. The Sovereign’s Choice is an important challenge. He’s simply exercising his part in the manner. We’re back here to aide Leila’s façade.”
Leila looked Cosima in the eye. “You defend him?”
“You asked what was going on. I’m answering Your question.” Cosima’s voice was soft, but her gaze had turned cold.
Heads turned as the competitors arrived, lining up before the Sovereign. Tobias’s eyes flitted Leila’s way, and She eased into Her seat. He had immunity from dismissal. For once, She had little to worry over.
The pounding of footsteps sounded, and Wembleton and his guards appeared, marching up to the throne. Anxious sweat coated the Senator’s face as he spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ninth challenge of the Sovereign’s Tournament. This is the Sovereign’s Choice. None of you will be competing today. This is a challenge unlike the others. In fact, it began the moment you entered this tournament—the challenge of impressing our esteemed Sovereign.”
Leila snorted, sinking into Her seat.
“Dragon, Shepherd, Prince, Artist, Intellect,” Wembleton continued, “as the final five men of this tournament, your laurels will be regarded with honor for all eternity. But only four of you will remain in the palace to compete for The Savior’s affection. One of you will be released today, the man who is least fit to wear the crown as deemed by the Sovereign himself.”
Wembleton cleared his throat. “Per tradition, The Savior is not without say in the Sovereign’s Choice.” His voice cracked. “It is within Her power to select one man to be free from release. The man exempt from the Sovereign’s Choice as dictated by our One True Savior is the Artist.”
Leila exhaled. At least one thing had gone according to plan. Her eyes locked onto Raphael. Please, Brontes. You’ve failed Me so many times. Don’t fail Me now.
“And now for the decision,” Wembleton said. “The second man to be honorably released from the Sovereign’s Tournament, the man least fit to wear the crown, is the Intellect.”
Raphael evacuated his lungs, and Leila did the same. She should’ve been happy, but a twinge pulled in Her chest. If only She could escape this mess as well.
“Intellect, you will be escorted off the fortress grounds immediately.” Wembleton fussed with his drapes, preparing to leave. “With that said, the Sovereign’s Choice has come to a close—”
“I have a question,” Tobias said.
All eyes flicked his way. His shoulders were squared, his stance hardened.
Wembleton furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”
>
“I said I have a question.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“The Shepherd and the Dragon,” Tobias continued. “Why are they staying?”
“The Sovereign has determined—”
“I’m not asking you.” Tobias turned to Brontes. “I’m asking him.”
Leila’s heartbeat quickened. What was the purpose of this? The challenge was over. Tobias had been saved. But now Her father was staring at him, wrath alive in his gaze.
“Choose your words wisely, Artist,” he growled.
“You send home a good man today.” Tobias stepped forward. “Yet a man who marks his kills on his arms and another who preys on women get to stay. Why?”
“I’m not obligated to explain my decisions to you.”
“And have you no obligation to your daughter? Or would you prefer She marry a murderer? Is that simply your taste? Did you just pick out the most heinous killers in this tournament and give them your blessing?”
Brontes’s eye shrank into a slit. “You will learn your place, Artist. You stand below me for a reason.”
Fear gnawed at Leila’s gut. Stand down, Tobias. You will get yourself killed.
“The Shepherd and the Dragon are not fit to rule alongside your daughter,” Tobias said. “They’re rabid dogs that need to be put down.”
“And tell me, who is better fit for the throne in your humble opinion? A laborer? One without a father? Who keeps the company of cripples?”
“You have no care for your daughter. No care for your staff. You put their lives at risk each day. You let murderers share their home.” Tobias’s lips curled into a snarl. “You’re a liar and a coward.”
“And you’re a fool who can’t see what’s right in front of him. You speak as if your words matter, but you are blind, and you are stupid, and your common blood reeks of pity and shit. You’re worthless—a little boy playing a man’s game. You’re in over your head. And your only ally lies to your face.”
Leila’s stomach dropped. She waited for Tobias to look Her way, for the realization to hit him, but he remained unyielding.
“I wanted to send you home today,” Brontes said. “But for whatever reason, my daughter, the daft cunt, She saved you. So here we are, stuck with one another yet again. But now…now I’m growing fond of this decision. Because at least I still have the pleasure of watching you die.”
His words carved at Leila, piercing to the bone. He leaned forward in Her throne. “You will die here, Artist. You will.”
The quiet that followed was thick and stifling. Brontes flicked his wrist toward the guards. “The challenge is over. Send the Intellect on his way.”
Hushed voices filled the space. Raphael glanced at Leila, the only thanks he could offer, then vanished soon after, ushered by the very guards who had retrieved Her in the first place. A sinking feeling took root within Her—for Tobias’s bizarre display; for the freedom Raphael was so easily granted, yet She was denied; for the entire quandary of Her existence.
Leila and Her sisters gave parting, dispersing with the rest of the staff. Cosima walked ahead at a brisk pace, and Leila hastened Her stride, scowling.
“Cosima.”
She whirled around. “Yes, dove?”
“We haven’t shared words in some time.”
“Is that so?” Cosima pursed her lips, seemingly deep in thought. “Oh my, You’re absolutely right. I’ve been so busy aiding Your plans, the days have slipped by and I hadn’t noticed.”
Leila hardened Herself. “We can speak now.”
“Dove, I wish we could. I have a terrible headache, and if I don’t lay down, I fear I’ll grow faint.”
“We can speak while you lay down.” Leila crossed Her arms. “I can heal your ache. You know this well.”
“Nonsense, I’d hate to steal You away for such trivial matters. I promise I’ll be fine.”
“Cosima—”
“Another day, dove.” She continued on her way, blowing a kiss over her shoulder. “Love You.”
Delphi and Pippa sauntered up to Leila’s sides, watching as their fourth sister faded from view. Fire crackled in Leila’s chest. “She’s hiding something.”
“She can’t be the traitor,” Delphi said. “She would’ve told Brontes of the switch long ago.”
“Then what’s the explanation?”
Delphi said nothing. Grimacing, Leila turned on Her heel and walked off.
The three women traveled through the palace in aimless circles, Delphi and Leila fighting to make sense of their plans while Pippa nodded along. Why is Brontes keeping the ruse a secret? That was but one question they needed answers to, along with his and the traitor’s meeting place. “We’ll start there.” Leila said the words with confidence, though Her insides shrank, desperate for a guiding light.
“And King Jaco? When does he arrive?”
“Tonight, I assume.”
Brontes’s voice halted Her. The entryway lay ahead, where servants hoisted leather trunks onto their shoulders, and fair-skinned soldiers in heavy furs stood beside ebony guards in sapphire plates. Brontes stood in the center of it all—alongside Cosima, a glittering circlet atop her head, her supposed ailment long forgotten. Smiling, She greeted two visitors: a slender man with deep brown skin dressed in white robes with copious jewels; and a woman with pale skin, silver armor, and a brown braid hanging down her back.
The Monarch of Ethyua and the Queen of Kovahr.
“No need to bother with the banquet,” Brontes said. “Servants will show you to your chambers. Rest for the evening.”
“Oh no, that will not do.” The Monarch’s accent was smooth and melodic. “I came to experience your tournament. I will miss nothing, let me assure you.”
“Tonight is merely a formality. There will be plenty more events.”
“Ones far grander than this.” Cosima’s eyes sparkled. “The true theatrics begin tomorrow.”
“Ah, yes. The challenge.” The Monarch grinned, flashing white teeth. “Tell me, will they really fight to the death?”
“With their bare hands,” Brontes said.
Cosima chuckled with the royals, petting the Monarch’s hand as if they stood as equals, while Leila simmered in the shadows.
A head turned Her way—the Kovahrian Queen, her small eyes clear from a distance. Cocking her chin, she studied Leila and smirked.
“Leila,” Delphi said. “Let’s go.”
The disquiet in Leila’s stomach twisted, a rag wrung at opposite ends. At some point Cecily prepared Her for the banquet, though not as liberally as usual, and Leila took Her seat at the head of the atrium table among Her court and Her competitors. Cosima sat in the center, carrying herself with the poise of a ruler, but what truly unsettled Leila was the memory of the Queen’s gaze.
Leila shook Herself. The challenge tomorrow—that was a problem She could address now. A fight to the death. She slinked Her hand beneath the table, reaching past Her lap to Tobias. His fingers entwined with Hers, and Her resolve burned brighter.
She couldn’t save Herself tonight, but She could save him.
She abandoned the banquet before it was over, pulling Damaris aside. “Fetch the Artist.” She’d make the evening worthwhile yet. After a trip to the scroll room, She retreated to Her study, dumping the parchment onto Her desk. A fight to the death, and with their bare hands. This challenge was reminiscent of the ancient tournaments when the rulers were especially savage. Was there a loophole then? A blessing, or immunity?
The door creaked open, but She kept Her eyes on Her scrolls. “Tobias, come. I’ve learned of your next challenge. It’s very dangerous, and there isn’t much time to prepare, so it’s best we get started now.”
“For what purpose?” he asked. “So I can be one step closer to winning Cosima? To marrying your sister?”
She stopped in Her tracks. Tobias’s face was drawn, but what truly struck Her were the fine wisps of black trailing in his wake.
“Is something wrong?”
“I just don’t understand why you’re helping me.” His voice was low and bleak. “Why you’re doing any of this, really.”
She set Her scroll aside. “You know why.”
He wasn’t looking at Her, not directly. She came in closer. “Tobias…”
He yanked away from Her, swift and shocking. Leila gaped at him. “Tobias, what’s going on?”
“You must know what we’re doing is pointless. That there’s no happy ending for us.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Leila’s eyes widened. “Tobias—”
“Flynn knows,” he said.
“What?”
“Flynn knows about us. And he’s threatened to tell The Savior if we don’t end things at once.”
Leila’s shoulders slumped. Tobias stood before Her a miserable mess, and for nothing. How do I tell him?
“Did you hear me?” he said. “Flynn knows. He could end us both.”
“He won’t. I assure you, everything’s under control.”
“Is that right?” Tobias laughed, though it sounded hateful. He paced the room. “I put my hands on him. I promised to kill him if any harm came to you. I was this close to strangling the life from him. You may have your end of things under control, but I…I am far beyond that.”
The cloud around him turned dark and dense, and Leila’s nerves eddied. “Tobias, please try to relax.”
“How can I relax?” he spat. “Am I supposed to be comforted by the thought of your death? Or the thought of mine? Is this all supposed to amuse me?”
“Of course not. Why would you say that?”
“Look at you! You’re hard as stone. You act as if this doesn’t matter.”
“Because it doesn’t.”
He stopped pacing, eyes wide. She had spoken carelessly. Breathing in deeply, She wrangled composure. “Flynn knows. It’s a complication—”
“A complication?” he said. “Do you hear yourself?”
“There have been delays, but we still have time to make it right. There are moves left to be made, maneuvers yet to be considered—”
“What are you even talking about?”
“Brontes is formidable, but we can still stay one step ahead of him,” She maintained. “He’s gaining ground. I won’t deny that. But I’m not without resources. I knew of the garden, of Garrick’s execution, even today, with Raphael’s release—”