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The uniform swap was pure brilliance on her part and, judging by Raff’s sour punim, dead on, as was what Clara’s very public gesture meant.
A level playing field. Not an acknowledgment of one opponent’s power over the other, but instead establishing that the true power was in the hands of the game and letting the fates decide who deserved to partake of it.
It hurt, the admission of losing his power, but not as much as how good it felt to unburden himself by lamenting his loss with someone else, even if it did mean the road ahead was steeper, harder, and, apparently, as he turned to face Lord Raff, paved with fucking ogres who had a preponderance of hair in the wrong damn places.
The familiar horn blared, signaling the start of the game, and Bronze lunged forward.
And feinted.
Lunged and feinted again.
Honestly, when the two of them came together, it was like an awkward middle school dance where everyone was holding onto shoulders and waists armlengths apart. Raff was physically larger. Nothing Bronze could do about that, and if he wasn’t careful, that big-ass body would plow him into the dirt if the lycan even got so much as a whiff of the upper hand.
But Bronze had a longer reach. Best he could do was get in, jab fast, and tire the fucker out. Where Raff had strength, Bronze had stamina.
Two armbands were held in place by a bit of loose twine. That was it. All he had to do was outlast the snorting bull hurling toward him and swipe off two strips of leather. Easy peasy.
Bronze ducked and dove for Raff’s bicep, snagging the edge of one armband with his middle fingernail but not getting enough of a grip to wrest it free. He jumped back quickly but was a hair too slow and couldn’t avoid a swift blow to the side of his ribs.
“Fucking cheap shot, asshole,” Bronze grunted, holding his side.
Raff smiled, all fang. “Quite.”
After another few seconds or so of light-stepping it, Bronze crouched low, lunged again, then retreated. It took for-fucking-ever, but eventually, Raff started to show signs of wear. The widening nostrils with each breath, the extra second of recovery the male took before throwing a punch or two, with every third one regrettably landing where he aimed it. Despite the hits, however, it was working. Raff was slowly beginning to conform to Bronze’s wrestling style.
Bronze had, at best, another dozen breaths or so before Raff would get wise to that fact, so he had to act. Now.
Hinged at the waist, Raff charged forward and snagged Bronze by the neck. Bronze dropped his arms and let his left one loosely settle on the outside of Raff’s elbow, while he grabbed the male’s wrist with the other.
Let him come to you. Make him think you’re out of juice.
Letting his body fall lax, Bronze dropped his shoulders low but surged forward with minimal strength, just enough to make Raff think he was fighting back. It worked, and Raff stormed forward to counterattack.
Except Bronze had no interest in fighting back. Instead, he dropped his grip on Raff’s right arm, put his hand to the ground to hold himself steady, and shrugged his shoulder away. The lycan lost his balance and his handhold on Bronze and pitched forward . . .
Just enough for Bronze to yank free one of the male’s armbands before kicking out, rotating over, and pinning the lycan beneath him.
The crowd erupted in a cheer loud enough to be felt through the soles of Bronze’s boots. But the loudest cheer of all came from Clara. He shouldn’t have risked a glance, but he’d been about as helpless in that regard as any number of his overused muscles.
Goddamn, she was lovely, with a smile as bright as the moon and far too much pride beaming through her joyful expression for him to ever think for one second that she thought him to be truly powerless.
He was, though. Totally and completely. He knew that now and wasn’t at all surprised she had him pegged long before he’d figured it out, though perhaps not in the way she’d originally meant it. When it came to her, he was truly and utterly powerless, and it was becoming enough of a damn problem that he wasn’t entirely sure it was even a problem anymore.
She’d manufactured this whole event knowing her father and Raff would be playing by house rules, and she risked mages only knew what to ensure their treachery didn’t grow roots.
She’d done it for him, not to highlight his deficiencies but to cut the tyrants off at the knees, and do so in a way that didn’t incite a revolt or get someone killed.
Clara had figured out how to play the game so her opponents would have to fall back several spaces, all the while Bronze kept marching on at his assumed pace.
And he’d stormed out on her last night, with the taste of her still on his lips no less, like a tantruming teenager who was butthurt because he’d just been told he had to do his homework before he could play his four hours of video games on a weeknight.
Had there ever been a bigger asshole? He’d have to double-check with Chrome to be certain, but in that moment, he didn’t think it was possible. Gold fucking star for him.
It was Clara who made Bronze realize what was about to hit him. Her eyes growing wide with shock. Her lower lip falling open. The screams.
Then Raff’s growl came as he roared up beneath Bronze, reached over, grabbed him by the arm, and flipped him onto his back in a slam so hard it loosened Bronze’s back teeth. Before he could move, Raff crawled up his body and knelt on Bronze’s thighs, pinning him to the spot.
One tug down an arm, then another. Bronze’s screams erupted as sharp claws raked through the soft skin on the undersides of his forearms, leaving bloody calling cards in their wake.
