Page 97 of Downfall of a Princess

I vowed right then and there that I would never let them down. I’d live to be their queen and their champion.

I crossed the arena and ascended the stairs to the royal platform to take my seat next to my mother.

The circle of soldiers and gladiators moved, forming a procession. They filled the arena in neat rows. The soldiers wore the Royal Army uniforms with shiny buttons and wide epaulets. Their swords hung in sheaths over wide silk sashes crossingtheir chests. The high general, a proud, well-built woman, headed the procession on a tall black stallion.

The gladiators presented a less uniformed and more colorful sight. Their clothes represented the characters they assumed in the arena during the Games. Led by the games master, an energetic woman with shoulder-length dark curls held by a bright red hairband, the gladiators marched across the arena, holding up their weapons toward the royal platform in salutation.

My gaze slid along the long line of muscular men and stopped, caught on a tall figure that towered over the rest.

The top half of his face was concealed behind the lowered visor of his helmet, but I would recognize his beard out of a million. A thrill rushed along my skin at the memory of that beard gliding down my body to settle between my thighs.

Salas had accepted the offer. He had become one of the queen’s gladiators. Relief washed over me. He was here. He was safe. No longer did I have to stay awake at night wondering where he might be and whether he was well, fed, and rested.

As the procession of gladiators marched across the arena, displaying various formations for the amusement of the spectators, I couldn’t tear my attention from that one man.

It appeared the games master had already chosen a persona for him to play in the arena. She didn’t miss the opportunity provided by his exceptional height and size, dressing him in fur and leather like a wild man from the highest ridge of the Drazil Mountains. A full-size bear hide was draped over his wide shoulders, which must be torture to wear in this heat.

The rules on male modesty applied only loosely to the gladiators. Salas was wearing no shirt. His broad torso was covered only by the layer of his chest hair, which was uncannily almost the identical color as the bear hide on his shoulders. His crudely made helmet fit in with the overall savage look of hisoutfit. The helmet had been chosen wisely—with the visor over his face that kept him safe from being recognized by anyone from his past even if they happened to attend the Games.

With his visor down, I had no way of telling whether he saw me. He appeared to be looking straight ahead, focusing on executing the formations along with the others. But it didn’t matter. Right now, it was enough for me to see him safe and sound.

I watched him furtively, hoping my glasses hid my eyes enough for no one to notice. I saw his hand gripping the handle of the massive ax he carried on his shoulder, and I remembered those thick, strong fingers dancing on my body while I writhed in pleasure under him. I saw his biceps bulge under the bear hide and remembered how he carried me in his arms, the press of his body against mine so gentle and warm.

Salas might be safe. But I could never be safe from my feelings for him.

There he was.

The keeper of my secrets.

The giver of all my first.

The fallen man who made me fall too.

He made me question this world that before him I’d accepted with no reservations.

His soul had linked with mine in a connection I didn’t know how to break. My body ached for him. Ahead of me lay the torture of having him close without a chance of ever calling him mine.

Despite the heat of the late morning, chills ran down my arms as the gladiators left the area.

The heralds brought their long trumpets to their mouths, sounding the fanfare before the princes were finally announced.

I sat straighter. The dreams about hugs, and kisses, and caresses of a beard had to remain in the past. My future was with one of the three men entering the arena now.

The colorful crowd of richly dressed courtiers spilled into the arena. It had been decided to do the introduction of all three princes simultaneously, so as not to wound the pride of any one Queendom by arranging them into a line with the first and the last.

The three courts filled the arena, dividing it into three sectors. Three young men ascended the stairs to the platform where I sat with my parents. They greeted us before taking a knee in front of me.

The princes were young—still boys who’d barely crossed into manhood. I stared at the three heads bowed to me and wondered how I could build a connection with any one of them.

I decided to start from left to right.

“I trust your journey here was pleasant, Prince Leafar,” I addressed the blond head.

At the sound of his name, the prince looked up.

“It was filled with peril, Your Highness. But every bit of danger was worth seeing you now.”

I wondered what perils the prince could’ve encountered while traveling in his cushioned carriage across the border. Of the three of them, Prince Leafar’s journey was the shortest, since Olakrez Queendom was the closest to Rorrim. But I said nothing to question his claim.

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