Piper Cross, an undercover spy, must relive her past as a child gladiator in order to bring the underground arena to justice.
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Growing up gladiator is brutal. The cells are cramped...
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The sun was down and the lights were low by the time I emerged from my room in the King's Favour, feeling like I was going to the school dance all over again.
It was strange not to be going as a chaperone this time. Even stranger to let Avah do my makeup instead of Isaac, but I was surprised by how easy it was to let her gold-tipped nails get close to my eyes, even knowing they were capable of sprouting claws at a moment's notice. My breathing came easy as she dabbed glue and glitter and gloss, foundation and powder and highlighter — only enough to make my burnished skin looked even more polished, she claimed.
I'd always quietly worried my skin looked sallow, but she'd complimented me enough times over the week that I was starting to believe her when she said nice things.
Like now.
"You have a wicked beauty about you," she said as she followed me into the hallway, leaning back to adjust the placement of my curls. Whatever she'd sprayed from the crystal bottle we picked up at the apothecary made them perfectly smooth and bouncy. "Like a witch about to steal a prince's heart."
I giggled at that. "And you look devilishly handsome, like the guardsman that's going to try and stop me."
She did, in her new battle-mage garb. We'd ripped out the gaudy trims and replaced the golden cape with a flattering undershirt of dragonscale, a purple variation that complimented her dark skin and flashed turquoise in the light. According to the shopkeeper, it was spelled to mimic the properties of shifting leather, and would reappear in its original state once a werewolf returned to their human form. We'd tested it, of course, pleasantly surprised to discover it was true.
"Shall we?" Avah asked.
"We shall," I said, double fisting my skirts and pulling them up. They were absurdly long and fluffy, a hairbreadth away from kissing the floor at any given moment. Avah followed five paces behind, determined to play the role of dutiful guard. In truth I was grateful that she was there to catch me as I walked carefully down the hall, grimacing at the unnatural arch of my feet.
"Torture devices," I muttered under my breath, hating the way the heels stuck in the dust-clogged carpet on the stairs. "Why do I have to pretend my legs are long? Everybody already knows I'm short."
"You'll be fine," Avah chided as we turned through the landing. "On the bright side, you can easily take them off in a fight."
I chuckled, resting one hand on the balustrade as I looked at her over my shoulder. "I actually bought these because they have a detachable heel. Which also doubles up as a switch-blade."
She opened her mouth to reply, and I marked the moment her amusement turned into something more wistful. She was looking at something over my shoulder — somebody waiting for us on the ground floor.
Waiting for me.
It was a movie moment, the kind that repeated itself endlessly the romantic comedies Sail forced me to watch every Christmas holidays to reset after our horror film binges, and yet even though I knew what to expect it took my breath away. Isaac stood before a retinue of our very own battle mages, looking utterly resplendent in an outfit fit for a king. His trousers were black and flatteringly tailored to the muscle in his legs, while his shirt — clean and simple white linen — hung open at the neck, lending him a devious, almost rakish air. I rather liked that he was showing off the black handprint rather than trying to hide it; it broadcasted the fact that the Golden One was afraid of what he could do unchecked.
