Page 67 of Fated to the Wicked King

His Majesty deflected the blow with unnerving ease, their blades skidding together in a shower of sparks as Gregory was forced backward again, his shoulder slamming into another planter that toppled violently beside them.

I gawked at the Duchess. “Are you not going to do anything to stop this?”

The Duchess’s blue eyes shone with glee, her fan flapping harder. “Oh, don’t mind me. I do enjoy watching the young men tussle.”

Chez made a retching sound.

Same, Chez. Same.

Sophie seemed likewise entranced by the view.

I could hardly catch my own breath.

Even in combat, His Majesty was devastating to watch—his movements fluid and precise, each strike unfolding with a lethal grace that turned violence into something almost hypnotic. His firm muscles drew taut beneath his tunic with every controlled motion, strength and elegance entwined in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“She is not from this world. You cannot keep her.” He pivoted smoothly into another vicious strike aimed at Gregory’s shoulder, forcing him back across the stone.

Undeterred, Gregory lifted his chin. “She will be free to come and go as she likes, so long as she doesn’t stay with you.” Recovering quickly, he reset his stance and circled. He struck again, this time lower and faster, aiming for the king’s side with more force and urgency, but the result was the same.

The king turned the blade aside with a flick of his wrist, their swords scraping together in a shrill clash before separating again as Gregory faltered sideways into a tall ceramic planter, sending it crashing to the floor in a burst of shattered clay and scattered leaves.

The king’s eyes glinted in indignation. “I possess her heart. It has always been mine. It will forever be mine. You will never own it.”

“If she will have me, your claim will have no bearing.” Holding his own, Gregory stepped back. His breathing grew heavy, strands of golden hair falling loose against his damp brow, his grip tightening as he prepared himself again. His tight muscles strained and shifted beneath the fight, his every movement edged with determination, with passion.

I supposed I should have been flattered. The King of Wünder and the Prince of Lucerne appeared, by all accounts, to be fighting over me. Yet beneath it all, it evoked more of a battle about pride—the desire to claim me.

Did they even stop to consider that I deserved the right to choose for myself? That I had my own goals and intentions?

Of course, regardless of what I wanted, or who I deemed to choose—that was, if I chose anyone at all, I certainly didn’t want either of them to get hurt or killed.

“You are the biggest threat to Allie’s life, to her well-being, and you don’t even realize it. Or maybe you do, and what does that make you?” Gregory feinted high before twisting mid-motion, redirecting his blade toward the king’s unguarded side in a maneuver that was faster, sharper, and more desperate than anything before it⁠—

It almost landed.

The Wicked King moved.

Not with haste, nor with any visible strain, but with a precise, controlled motion that met Gregory’s blade at exactly the right angle, stopping it cold with a force that rang through the hall.

Before Gregory could recover from the impact, the king stepped forward and brought his own weapon down in a decisive, overwhelming strike. Gregory’s sword was knocked from his hand, clattering loudly across the stone floor.

The king shot forward as though he would strike another blow—it would have been brutal, devastating, final. But he stopped.

He took a deep breath. His eyes on the floor, his words were a deep growl in his throat, “Leave us now.”

Gregory blinked. He looked quite winded, uncertain, as if he had already steeled himself for a painful death that did not come. His shoulders were still heaving. His eyes flickered as if he almost wanted to take up his sword once again, but then his expression cleared. His throat bobbed as the true outcome of the duel settled over him.

The king was letting him live.

“Whew.” The Duchess guzzled a flute of champagne. “That was quite exhilarating.” She set the glass down on the table, then clapped. “My dears, that was marvelous!” She didn’t seem to care at all that her conservatory had fallen into elegant disarray, with shattered pots, scattered soil, and broken branches littering the floor.

Trance broken, Sophie rushed to her brother’s side, quickly assessing any injuries needing tending before taking a deep breath of relief.

I stared at the Wicked King. He remained still, his gaze on the floor. He didn’t seem strained by the fight at all, at least not physically. He could have killed Gregory—easily. But I couldn’t read the expression on his face, the crinkle between his eyebrows. Was it remorse? Was he merely holding back? Was he going to strike once Gregory’s back was turned?

The nearby neighing of horses punctuated the situation, drawing both mine and Sophie’s attention out the window.

Chez hopped up to perch upon the balcony railing. He glanced toward the courtyard. “Your horses seem to be getting restless.”