Page 19 of Monster's Pretty Bride

I throw my weight forward, then back, trying to break their hold. It doesn’t work. The gargoyles don’t budge.

Stronger than stone.

One of them grips my hair, yanking my head back, forcing me to see the smirk curling his jagged lips. "Still got fight in you, little bride?"

I snap at him, teeth bared like an animal. "Come closer and find out."

He chuckles, but there’s no real amusement in it.

They drag me past the threshold, out into the courtyard, where the sun glares down like a molten blade. The shift from shadow to light is blinding. My feet skid against the sand, every muscle bracing as I’m shoved forward into the open arena.

I freeze.

The courtyard is full.

Gargoyles line the perimeter, their massive bodies positioned in a loose semicircle, wings flicking restlessly. Not guards. Not sentries. Warriors.

Training.

My stomach twists, cold realization curling down my spine as my gaze snaps to the center.

Naranus stands among them, arms crossed, golden eyes unreadable as he watches my struggle. He’s not surprised to see me like this.

He planned this.

A slow, deliberate smirk tugs at his lips.

"Take a weapon," he commands.

Silence slams into the arena.

The gargoyles shift, their stances tightening. The way they look at me, it’s not curiosity. It’s hunger.

I straighten, my breath coming hard through my nose. My pulse thrums, heavy and hot, but I force my chin high, refusing to let them see the way my heart slams against my ribs.

The silence stretches.

One of them steps forward. A smaller one.

If you could call any of them small.

His body is leaner, his frame built for speed rather than brute force. His wings tuck in tight, his tail flicking once before stilling. The barest hint of a smirk plays at the edges of his mouth, but his golden eyes gleam with something sharper.

This isn’t a test.

It’s an execution.

I shift my attention back to Naranus, my fingers curling into fists.

"You did this," I breathe. "This is on you."

His expression doesn’t change. "Take a weapon."

The bastard isn’t going to let me back out. If I refuse, I will lose before I even begin.

Fine.

I snatch the dagger from the weapons rack, testing its balance in my grip. It’s heavier than what I’m used to, the hilt fitted for someone with claws rather than fingers. But it will do.

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