Page 21 of A Forbidden Arrangement
I follow behind him with Matthias and Bash, every footstep echoing in the cavern. The Vault stretches out around us, more like a tomb than a chamber. Marble and tile walls brace the low ceiling, shadows clinging to it where the candlelight doesn’t reach.
My cloak drags against my shoulders, heavy and stiff, the mask biting into the side of my face. It doesn’t matter. Discomfort is nothing. Weakness is worse.
The men closest to us are the Saints, one from each of the twenty-six ruling families. Money, power, bloodlines. All bent at the spine, all here to prove their loyalty.
Behind them, the Unsainted kneel lower, their foreheads nearly brushing stone. Initiates. Not yet worthy of a mask, only permitted to watch and hope their families drag them into the circle one day. For now, they’re shadows.
Four thrones wait at the top of the dais, three set just behind Damon’s. He takes his seat first, before me and my brotherslower ourselves into the hard wooden thrones. The Saints and Unsainted remain on their knees, a living reminder of the hierarchy.
I stare past them, my mind slipping where it shouldn’t. Not on the bowing men. Not on the centuries of tradition.
On her.
Dahlia.
Even surrounded by power, even with an empire kneeling at my feet, she’s the only thing clawing through me.
Damon leans forward, gold mask flashing in the light, and speaks the words they’re waiting for.
“You may rise.”
Chairs scrape. Robes shift. I don’t hear any of it.
Dahlia.
What the fuck is she doing right now? Who’s with her?
My grip crushes the armrest, wood cutting into my palm. Rage scorches my chest at the thought of her laughing at some faceless man, tilting her head the way she once did for me. My vision blurs black at the edges.
She’smine. Mine to guard. Mine to shatter with my touch until she’s screaming my name.
Anyone else who lays a hand on her won’t live long enough to regret it.
Sweat runsdown my neck and soaks my back. My shirt is long gone, fists taped, eyes locked on Damon. He smirks at me, even with the fresh cut split beneath his eye. Misty will kill me for that one.
Each punch, each slam into the mat, drags the tension out of me. Damon comes in fast, his fist grazing my cheekbone.
I swing for the takedown, but he baited me, drawing me in close before sweeping my legs out from under me. The mat knocks the air from my lungs, and before I can recover, he flips me, his knee digging into my spine, my wrists crushed in his grip.
“Tap out.”
“Fuck no.” My voice is low, guttural. His knee grinds harder.
Pain radiates through my back, climbing into my neck until white heat sears my vision.
“Tap out.”
This bastard. My hands are pinned, no way out. The words burn on my tongue.
“I yield.”
Damon lets go and gets to his feet like we haven’t been at it for two hours. He holds a hand out, but I stay down, flip over on the mat, and stare at the ceiling.
I suck in a breath, lungs raw, while Bash heckles from the corner. “You lasted longer than I thought,” he calls, grinning like an idiot.
“Like you could do better,” I mutter, closing my eyes.
For half a second, I think about calling him in. In this shape, he would have me laid out before the first round ended. Not worth it.
