Page 388 of Fated to be Enemies

A smile cracked his square jaw. “No.” He shook his head. “You look great.”

By now I’d met him under the arch, but he hadn’t made a move to go in. Inwardly, I cursed Kris for pushing me to wear this damn corset. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” He held out his arm, chuckling as if to his own private joke. “But so much for not attracting attention.”

Deep breath in, then out. “Okay.” I linked my arm through his. The charade of my first date with a Morgon had begun. “Let’s go then.”

Our plan was to arrive near the end of the game, so we could blend in easily with the crowd. I’d been to the Vaengar Games once before. I wrote my first feature story on this favorite Morgon sporting event. The Gladium crowd cheered our home team, the Sabers. Teams from Morgon provinces all over the place traveled to compete here in Vaengar Stadium.

We climbed the final ramp, and Kraven led me into the Box, opening wide to the vast arena. Energy and sound hit me like a tidal wave. The bell tolled to begin a match, and the crowd roared, sending vibrations through my chest. The Box was a sectioned off area with plush seating and a private bar, specifically for the elite Morgon clans and sometimes their fortunate human friends. I’d never been here before. Even with my tight connection to Lucius and Lorian, I’d never stepped foot into this realm of the Morgon world. A little uneasy, but I hid it well. One thing I learned in my upbringing among high society was to keep my mask on at all times. You never knew who was watching, waiting to find and exploit your weakness.

“Conn!” shouted Kraven, waving over a rust-winged Morgon with auburn hair. I knew him.

“Conn Rowanflame, this is?—”

“Moira Cade,” he finished, taking my hand in both of his. “We met at Julian’s last birthday party, right?”

I nodded. “Good to see you again.” As charming and handsome as ever. Many Morgon men bore a stern, sometimes forbidding, exterior. Not Conn. He smiled easily and wore a mischievous glint in his eye, promising he was up to no good.

“You’re here with Kraven?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. She’s here with me. So don’t flirt too much.”

“Me?” Conn looked appalled at the accusation, slipping an arm over my shoulder. “Never. Come sit in my private section.” He waved Kraven off. “You go get us some drinks. What would you like, Moira?”

“A beer is fine.”

“She wants a beer, and I’ll have the same.”

I laughed. Kraven just shook his head before moving through the crowd toward the bar. We’d mutually decided that our plan was to pretend we’d been dating for a month. It would make others more comfortable to open up to me. It would also be an outright challenge for Morgon men to test our connection.

In a quick briefing over the comm yesterday, Kraven explained that without a scent imprint in my skin, other Morgons would know I was still “available.” Before I could even ask what a scent imprint was, he explained that when Morgons were serious about a female, Morgon or human, she carried his scent in her skin. Other Morgon men knew it immediately. Because I didn’t bear his imprint, Morgon men would be vying for my attention. And hopefully, one of them would be the black-haired, black-eyed Morgon with a facial tic.

Fortunately, Conn’s section was front and center with a great view of both the arena as well as the other tiers of fans. I had a feeling that Conn’s appearance wasn’t at all coincidental. The way his eyes darted across the crowd, searching for possible threats, reminded me of the way Lucius and Lorian assessed and observed. He must be on the Nightwing Security team.

Just as I sat, a silver-winged Saber flew past our section, the wind whooshing my hair back.

“Get ’em, Slade!”

“You know him?” I asked Conn.

“Yeah. A friend of mine.”

Vaenger was basically a game of “capture the torque” where each team alternated playing offense and defense per match. The goal was to capture the golden torque dangling at the top of a spire welded into the cavern floor at the center of the arena. It was the job of the stealer on the offense to capture it before the bell tolled the ending of the match. And before being burned by a fire-breathing opponent on the defensive team.

Both teams played bare-chested, zooming through the air at ridiculous speeds. The opponents’ stealer flew high above the players, circling in a slow, strategic way. He had wide, deep-purple wings, like the rest of his team. My blood pumped faster at the fanfare of dragonwings beating Morgons into the air, whipping their muscular bodies into a magnificent display of beauty and strength. A common spectacle for Morgons, I tried not to reveal how bewitching such a sight was for me.

“Who are we up against?”

I already knew, but didn’t want Conn or anyone else to know that I’d spent the week in between dinner at my sister’s and tonight researching every Vaenger team from here to Cloven.

“The Storm-gales, a rural team from outside Drakos called Violetvale, which also happens to be their clan name.”

And also reflected the color of their wings. I nodded, sucking in a breath as a purple-winged player zipped past the box, blowing a stream of orange flame at Conn’s friend who grappled with him in the air. The two went air-tumbling to the dirt floor of the arena.

“Here, Moira.” Kraven was beside me, handing me a mug of beer.

I sipped lightly, wanting to keep sober. Morgon beer was stronger than human brews. Everyone knew their DNA differed from humans in many ways. One was their unbelievably high tolerance for alcohol.

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