Page 80 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

With his usual arrogance, the God of the Hunt loops his thumbs through his belt as he swaggers up to the table. Shirtless beneath his leather vest, his bare muscles shine with freshly applied oil.

A woman murmurs to her friend behind me, “I wouldn’t mind if he hunted me down.”

“Oh, darling,” a man purrs, eyeing Artain’s bulging muscles. “I knowexactlywhat you mean.” He fans his hand like a tiger’s claw.

I hide a snicker behind a loose fist. Artainisexceedingly pretty—that’s undeniable. A blonde-haired, chisel-jawed illustration stepped off the page with muscles on top of muscles on top of muscles, but I willnever be able to take seriously a god who refuses to wear a shirt.

Artain takes his time collecting fallen nails from the wreckage, much to the crowd’s confused murmurs. He holds one up to the light, frowning, and then licks a drop of raspberry jam off its point.

Next, he selects four arrows from his quiver and swaps out the pointed tips with the nails.

“Lady Sabine.” He nocks one of the modified arrows. “Would you do me the honor of blindfolding me?”

I snort, rolling my eyes. He has to be joking.

However, the audience oohs and aahs in perfectly serious anticipation. “Oh—um.” Feeling wobbly, I pluck at my dress sleeve, wondering what to use as a blindfold.

“With yourhands.” Despite Artain’s smile, impatience rings in his voice.

I level a hard look at him. He thinks he’s so clever? I can’t let this preening dolt have any more reason to admire himself.

I down the rest of my ale, then slam the flagon on a table. “Sure.”

For as broad as his shoulders are, Artain isn’t especially tall. On my tiptoes, I can easily reach around from behind to cover his eyes. As he draws his bow, his loose hair brushes against my lips, and I grimace, trying not to make too much of a show as I spit it away.

“Lord Vale,” Artain announces. “If you would please lift the fallen beam.”

All eyes shift to my father, who leans back on his throne to evaluate the hole in the ceiling. My stomach tightens, unsure what to expect. Are my palms sweating? Gods, I hopenot. I’d hate to give Artain the satisfaction of knowing I’m not as cold-blooded as them.

Vale brushes his hand over the broken ceiling joist. Blue bolts of fey crackle over it, slowly lifting the heavy beam into the air as surely as if hoisted by a rope.

Artain takes his time aiming, then lets loose the first arrow.

Even blindfolded, his aim strikes true. The nail-tipped arrow drills one corner of the suspended joist back into place. The spent arrow shaft rains down, and female courtesans scamper after it like a party favor.

Artain smirks at the cheers as he lets loose a second arrow.Perfect aim.

A third.Perfect again.

For the final arrow, he’s preening with confidence, and I smile to myself.Time to put him in his place.

I push higher on my toes and lick his pointed ear.

His bowstring falters, sending the arrow shooting into the evening’s honey-glazed roast turkey.

The crowd gags in surprise.

Artain whirls around to face me, knocking my hands away, an angry shade of red staining his cheeks. “You tricked me, princess.”

I give a thin smile. “Now you know how it feels.”

He stalks toward me, muscles coiled, hot energy rolling off him. His glowing eyes flash as he murmurs low, “If you want your tongue on me, just ask. One night together, and I’d?—”

“Enough.” My father’s booming voice cuts him off. “Your turn has concluded, Artain. Go nurse your loss with a bottle. Iyre is next.”

Iyre delivers a sharp poke with her long nail to Artain’s exposed navel. “Step aside, brother. Enough with you males and your grandstanding. Your way offixingstill leaves a mess.”

She sweeps her hand over the overturned dishware. As her eyes burn with a glow that holds both the blue and red of a flame, sparks of fey crackle from her palms.

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