Page 8 of Bloodguard

Aisling huffs. “You really should take more care with your attire,” she says, waving an irritated hand. She saunters closer, like a red weaver spider ready to pluck a juicy beetle from her web. “A hat and veil could be particularly fashionable, and maybe you could actually pull it off.”

My grip on my cloak loosens. This is not the moment to try me.

Aisling, of course, does. “Honestly, Maeve, this is your first time in the arena inages.Come—join Soro and me back in the stands, place a few bets, try talking to our peers.”

I couldn’t care less if that court of jesters ever speaks to me again. But to say “Soro and me”? Is she mad? Claiming Soro is like claiming a tiger. Yes, he’ll allow a stroke or two, but he will ultimately feast on your insides.

“I won’t support these games, Aisling. When I’m queen, by the phoenix, I’ll put an end to these horrors.”

“When you’re queen?” Aisling laughs. “You’ll never be queen without another noble for a fiancé.” The way she eases forward is more like a slither. “Maybe you should have thought of thatbeforelusting after that young gladiator for all to see.” Her brows slash downward. “You know, the one who turned your last chance at the throne into an embarrassing memory?”

“WasFilipmy last chance?” I ask and tap my chin, pretending to ponder marrying someone else. Aisling’s arrogance dwindles as she realizesSorois my last chance. But that’s a chance I’m not willing to take.Yet. Not that Aisling needs to know. “No, I don’t think he was.”

Cheers echo from the arena floor, followed by a roar, and my head whips toward the sound fast enough to flutter my hair. Was that a…dragon?

Aisling’s smile returns, pulling my gaze back to hers. This sadist is excited that the match has begun and likely giddy with the thought of what those poor fighters are about to endure. She can’t wait to get back, and I can’t wait to leave.

But as I turn, she reaches out to grab my hand, the elemental magic she’s known for crackling against her skin. I jerk free of her hold. “Comeon, Maeve. Let’s see what that handsome fighter can do…before hecan’t, of course,” she says.

My stomach sinks like a boulder as I edge farther away. “What makes you think he won’t win?” Seeing how easily he took down a swordsman like Filip, there can’t be many his equal.

But she knows something—and the glint in her eyes says she’s dying to tell me.

“Just spill it, Aisling,” I say. I want to scream and shout—at her, at the world—but it’s been drilled into me from childhood: decorum, decorum, decorum. One day, I’m just going to decide to fuck decorum and say and do whatever I want. But probably not today. “Please,” I add sweetly.

Aisling plays with a curl in her hair, her conceit as evident as the sparks of lavender magic coloring her eggshell skin. “Well…” She draws the word out, likely knowing each second she delays telling me is making my stomach knot tighter and tighter. Dread is a living, breathing thing pooling in my stomach now, and I’m fantasizing about reaching out and shaking her when she finally continues, “High Lord Vitor is adamant thatthatgladiator, and the one standing beside him, can’t be allowed to live past today.”

“Why?” I gasp, remembering that the veteran fighter beside mine—great, now I’m calling himmine—had two of the four final Bloodguard tattoos on his forearm.

“Because,”Aisling says like I’m the dim torch, “only the gladiators of Vitor’s choosing win Bloodguard. Obviously.”

“What did I choose?” a male voice asks from behind me, and Aisling startles.

Her eyes widen with genuine fear before she dips into a demure bow before Arrow’s regent. “My lord,” she addresses him. She gives my hand one last squeeze. “Join us in the stands, Maeve.”

Vitor narrows his eyes at her until she dashes away, and then he turns an indulgent smile on me. “Maeve, you look lovely. I’m so glad you decided to come today.”

“Hello, Uncle Vitor,” I say, my tone clipped as he draws even with me. I want to ask about his plans for the two gladiators, but I’ve known Vitor my whole life—and asking the High Lord to explain himself is the quickest way to never get answers.

“My condolences on your fiancé’s sudden demise,” he says.

He isn’t sorry, of course. In fact, he looks delighted.

“Soro goaded Filip into that arena.” I don’t need to insist. We both know it’s true.

“So what if he did?” Vitor asks, his visage spilling with relief. “You weresavedtoday, my daughter. If your intended was that easily riled, he would have made a terrible king.”

I can’t argue that logic, but he continues, “If you want to marry a simpleton, marry Soro.”

“Uncle,”I admonish out of habit.

It’s no secret Vitor prefers me over his son—it’s always been a difficulty between us.

He grins like he’s made some great stride and we might somehow return to the way things used to be between us. But there is no going back. Not while Papa is dying in prison. And Uncle Vitor the one who put him there.

“Won’t you consider releasing him?” I whisper, unable to bite back the question.

“This again? Maeve…” Vitor shakes his head. “Our kingdom thrives on laws. We can’t bend them just because you’ve asked me to.”

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