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“Fuck. Clara. Goddammit, Clara.” He scooped her tightly to his chest, burying his head, his nose, everything he needed to fucking breathe, into her sweet, trembling body. “Don’t do that to me again, princess. You hear me? Don’t you do that to me again.”
He didn’t know whether the subtle nod he felt against his chest was her agreement or more of her uncontrollable quivering.
As he balanced his ass on one and a half inches of fence, with Clara in his arms and the relic around his neck, he knew he’d reached a tipping point of his own as well.
Because her sweet woodsy scent—a scent his body imagined was just for him—was tinged with something he’d never expected to smell on her. It was a scent that he’d first observed when he’d been shown inside the arena but had thought nothing of it then.
However, that was long before the last five seconds of her life that almost shaved the last years off his.
He knew what it was now, and that terrified him almost as much as being powerless.
It was the scent of true unbridled fear.
Chapter 22
It had been hours since the game had ended, and Clara still wasn’t sure who had comforted who. After the final horn had blown, signaling the conclusion of the competition, healers had immediately seen to Sir Bryon and transported him to the infirmary. Lord Raff, not surprisingly, refused medical attention and instead walked off the field, sought the king out, and donned the same impassive expression that had been molded to his face since the first sands fell.
At least, that was what Bronze had told her, and she had to believe him, because she didn’t know how long she kept her face buried against his chest or how long he held her to his. By the Moon Mother, she’d never known such terror. Her ankle rolling, the dusty ground coming up to meet her, the percussive explosion that quieted her heart, the spray of earth blanketing Bronze’s back. All of it. Events and moments that spiraled out of control all because she’d pulled the pin from her grenade and started on this journey because she’d thought it would be easier to level the corrupted structure her father had built than rebuild on its shaky foundation.
And now she was the one who couldn’t stop shaking.
At some point, their bodies had moved. He’d shifted off the fence rail. Her feet found the dirt. But up above? She was still a trembling mess and refused to let go of Bronze’s neck until she could be absolutely one hundred percent certain all his vital pieces hadn’t been blown from him. The two of them had eventually settled, though she couldn’t say whether she settled him or he settled her. All that mattered was him lifting her higher into his arms, carrying her away, and gifting her with the warmest kiss of a new memory: her exhausted body being surrounded by familiar lavender-scented sheets and placed in her bed, lips rimmed with trimmed softness pressed against her forehead, and the sweet oblivion of finally crashing under the weight of adrenaline.
She’d awoken several hours later, alone and floating on a bizarre storm cloud of ease and discomfort. Food had been laid out for her on a glass tray by her bedside. It had taken several tries, but Clara had finally been able to grip the teacup without either scalding her lips or spilling the hot liquid all over herself. What little rest she’d managed to force upon her body had been fitful at best but ultimately beneficial. Her thumbs had been the first to stop shaking, but it took a while before the rest of her fingers had calmed enough to resume their normal functioning.
So close. She had been so close to losing him.
She brought the ceramic to her mouth, but even though its angled rim cut into her vision, it did nothing to block out the sight of Bronze taking the field as the extent of his powerlessness truly sank in. His face had fallen into a quiet panic that reminded her of, once again, being tossed out to sea. The way one’s vital organs would shift to brace for an impact the body had no control over and was helpless to prevent.
It was a true paralysis in every sense of the word. What shocked her the most was just how acutely her body had mimicked what she imagined he was feeling in that moment. Her heart stalling out, breath slowing, eyes widening, lips summoning whispered prayers to the Moon Mother. All of it flashed in a blink, and then there was an explosion, followed by the inexplicable: an angel flying through the air. Her angel.
She’d been prepared for none of it. Not the cunning ingenuity of her champion, the brutality of the games, nor the ruthless indifference Lord Raff had shown after the bomb had gone off and his male was injured.
And then she understood why: because the ruler had not only expected to win, like all proud males would, but had appeared silently astonished when he didn’t, as if a promise had been broken.
Clara’s stomach roiled when she’d finally figured it out, watching where Lord Raff had placed his feet throughout the arena and how he somehow knew to stick to the perimeter, which enabled him to be far more sure-footed than the other two males.
Someone had informed him of the game’s makeup, and since the law stated that the monarch was the only one who could devise how the games were constructed, it didn’t take a genius to sort out the snake. Her father was giving his champion the upper hand as a way to even the already uneven score. Yet another thing Bronze had warned her about, but she hadn’t considered, and damn her, she’d nearly lost Bronze because of it.
It was a situation she’d have to rectify immediately.
A soft knock at the door jarred her thoughts away from the nightmares plaguing her. Clara’s bare feet brushed the smooth stones as she went to answer it.
Lada, one of her staff, had her hands full with items that needed stowing, chief among them the moonstone relic still tucked into its velvet cushion. In her other arm, piled high, was the stack of linens Clara had asked for when she’d woken a short time ago, thinking a bath might ease her mind.
“Lady,” Lada said, offering up the folded bundle.
“Thank you.” Clara took them and huddled the warm fabrics to her chest as the elderly woman dipped her head and proceeded down the hall. She’d only made it about a dozen or so steps when Clara’s gaze shifted from the woman’s rhythmic step-shuffle gait to Bronze, who had been leaning against the wall outside her door. With his arms folded across his chest and one enormous black boot supporting his weight against the stones, he looked like a male not to be messed with, and yet there he was, ripe and ready for the messing. How long had he been there? He was the one who’d urged her to rest, after all. Did he not trust she would do so?
Those questions floated away as quickly as they arrived, however, as she drank in the sight of him. By the Moon Mother, she’d not seen him in hours, yet it felt like lifetimes, the way her chest constricted and her heart threatened to leap from her chest. His gaze was searing and held a heaviness to it that felt like a caress. Or a claiming. Whatever it was, her mind and body accepted both possibilities with great inexplicable eagerness.
Bronze pushed off the wall and proceeded toward her, urging the very air around him to part in his wake. Her damn heart fluttered some more, then stilled slightly when he paused in the hallway to focus on what Lada held. He observed the old female a moment longer as she turned right at the end of the hall and took the stairway down to the royal coffers, where the relic was always stored. Clara smiled at that, warming to the blooming fondness for this male who clearly had concern for the elderly lycan’s ability to descend stairs safely.
Clara was beginning to think she’d chosen poorly, for what male could be so kindhearted and selfless?
Hers, apparently, and she was losing reasons by the minute to regret her decision in choosing him.
Was it so terrible to want him, though? To admire him and all he’d done for her?
