Page 7 of Monster's Pretty Bride

He is not the only one who can wait.

4

NARANUS

The sun hangs low, bleeding against the horizon, casting deep gashes of crimson and gold across the training grounds. The sand beneath my feet is hot, scorched by the lingering heat of the day, the smell of charred earth clinging to the wind.

Eryss stands in the center of the arena, her gown stripped away, replaced by a fitted tunic and tight leathers meant for warriors, not brides.

Good.

The circle of my kin watches in silence, their hulking forms perched along the jagged edges of the stone ledges. Their expressions unreadable, their judgment sharp. They are waiting. Expecting weakness. Expecting the purna to crumble beneath my hand.

I have given them little reason to think otherwise.

But the woman before me is no lamb.

She lifts her chin as I prowl forward, the tilt of her head a silent challenge. No fear lingers in those storm-gray eyes, no hesitation in the way her stance settles into something firm, balanced.

She will break before she bows.

The thought rakes through me, unsettling in a way I do not care to name.

I roll my shoulders, letting my wings shift and flex before settling. “You claim to be more than a prisoner,” I murmur, circling her slowly. The heat between us thickens, tension winding tight, coiling sharp. “Prove it.”

She does not speak.

Does not flinch.

The blade at my hip hums as I draw it, the curved steel whispering against the sheath, the weight of it familiar in my grip. I toss it at her feet, watching as she glances down, as her fingers curl instinctively.

A moment. A hesitation.

She is unarmed.

She is trained.

But her magic remains locked beneath purna chains, sealed by the hands of those who sent her here to die.

I step back, folding my arms. “Pick it up.”

Her gaze flicks to mine, calculating. Searching for the trap.

She finds none.

Slowly, she crouches, fingers wrapping around the hilt. The blade is too large for her, a weapon made for something stronger, heavier. But she does not waver beneath its weight. She tests the balance, the sharpness, the shift of it in her grip.

She has held a blade before.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

The words are still leaving my lips when she lunges.

She moves fast. Faster than I expected.

The steel arcs toward me, a silver blur in the dying light. I sidestep, angling my body just out of reach, watching the way she adjusts, recalibrates. Her footwork is light, practiced. She pivots smoothly, dragging the blade in a sweeping strike meant to force me back.

I let her have the movement.

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