Page 114 of Shattered By Grace

Tristan hesitated for a fraction of a second before shaking his head. “He doesn’t usually attend. He has too much to set up since the Grand Reaping is the same night.”

Victoria stiffened. Her body went cold. “What?” She shot up, pushing onto her elbows before fully sitting up, the blanket slipping down her bare back. “What do you mean the Grand Reaping is the same night?”

Tristan sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “It always is. The ball is just another cover.”

Her stomach twisted. “Are you fighting?”

His jaw tensed, a flicker of regret flashing in his eyes before he schooled his expression into something annoyingly neutral. “You already know the answer to that.”

She inhaled sharply, her pulse hammering. “Why do you have to fight? Why does it have to be you?”

His lips quirked into a smirk, but there was no humor behind it. “Because that’s how it works, love. The heirs fight.”

Her hands clenched into fists against the sheets. “So Tyson will also fight?” The question unsettled her more than she expected.

“Yes.”

"That’s bullshit, Tristan." Her voice wavered, but her anger burned through it. "You’re not just some pawn for your father?—"

"That’s exactly what I am," he interrupted, voice like steel as he pushed himself up to sit beside her. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and unyielding. "You think I have a choice?" He met her gaze, unflinching. "This is just how it works."

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface. "So what? You just accept it? You go in there and risk your life because he says so?"

"I don’t risk my life, Victoria. I win."

Her breath hitched, the arrogance in his tone making her want to shake him. Or kiss him. "That’s not the point."

"That’s exactly the point." His voice dropped lower and leaned in, his presence wrapping around her like a storm on the horizon. "You want me to tell you I’m scared? That I hate it?" His jaw clenched, his breath sharp. "I can’t."

His gaze darkened, danger simmering behind his eyes. "Because I don’t hate it. I like fighting. The strength it takes. The control. The power." He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Reading my opponent, knowing their next move before theymake it and making damn sure I make the right call before they do."

He dragged a hand through his hair, his frustration bleeding into the movement. "I’ve been fighting these games since I was eighteen. I’ve only gotten better. Stronger. More ruthless." His voice dipped lower, cold and unyielding. "Because that’s what it takes to survive. To win."

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, not quite a grimace. "And I always win."

She rolled her eyes and punched him in the arm. "You’re a cocky bastard, aren’t you?"

"Hey," he laughed, rubbing his arm from the soft blow. But then his gaze locked onto hers, dark and unrelenting. The amusement faded. "But you want to know what scares me more?" His voice softened, but it wasn’t gentle. It was raw. "You."

Her chest tightened, her pulse a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but he didn’t let her look away.

"I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of the ways you could hurt me before anyone on that mat even gets the chance to try." He let the words settle, let her feel the weight of them. "But none of that changes reality. If I refuse to fight?" He huffed a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Then I might as well be dead already."

Her chest ached, torn between anger and the gut-wrenching truth of his words. She wanted to scream, to tell him there had to be another way. But she knew better.

Instead, she settled for one last whisper. "I hate this."

His fingers brushed against her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "I know."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Victoria exhaled, forcing herself to focus on something, anything else. Her gaze landed on the dress hanging on thecloset door, its deep red fabric gleaming softly in the dim light. A necessary illusion. One she’d have to wear, a role she’d have to play, just like every time she stepped into Cassian Locke’s world.

"And to answer your question—black. It’s classic and sexy."

Chapter Fifty-One

Victoria leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching Tristan move around with his usual effortless confidence. The smell of coffee and something sizzling on the stove filled the space, and the moment felt oddly domestic in a way that made her pulse quicken.

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