We Who Will Die by Stacia Stark - 32

A fter everything I’ve overcome in this place.

All the fights.

All the near misses.

This is how I die.

Rorrik enters the arena, prowling toward me. My blood drums in my ears, making my swollen face throb, and I force my knees to straighten, even as a cold sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.

He tilts his head, the movement all vampire. Fear punches into me, with more force than any blow I’ve faced on this sand.

His gaze drops to my neck and he goes utterly still, his face turning white. “Who has been torturing you, little novice?” he hisses, using his power to make his voice dance around outside my head.

It takes me a moment to remember writhing on cool marble while Bran stared down at me in Leon’s room. It feels like that was days ago. But of course Rorrik can see Bran’s mark.

I do a quick weapons count. Three throwing knives. One in each boot and one on my hip. My sword, still clutched in my hand. No shield. No armor.

But the throwing knives are silver. I may not be able to kill Rorrik before he kills me, but I can make him hurt.

“No reply?” He’s still taunting me, but I refuse to allow him to make me lose my focus.

Rorrik heaves a sigh, but his eyes are dark with fury as he stares at my neck. “I suppose I’ll need to get your attention some other way.”

In a flash of movement, he’s suddenly standing in front of me. I launch to the side, and he seizes my arm, yanking me close. When I swing my sword, he laughs .

Dread wars with fury. I swing again and again. Rorrik releases me, easily dodging my attack.

My eyes and brain can’t keep up with his movements. They’re little more than a blur. But I just have to …

He lashes out, the movement almost casual.

My hand goes numb, my sword hitting the ground several feet away, and the crowd explodes into a gasping, heckling, laughing mass. When Rorrik steps into my space, I’m ready.

My dagger slides straight into his gut.

He sucks in a surprised breath, and I have a single, blissful moment of satisfaction.

Until he rips the dagger from my hand, throwing it after my sword.

I duck, roll, sprint.

His breath is hot on the back of my neck, and he grabs my tunic, hauling me close. I slam my head backward, but he’s too tall, and my skull hits his hard chest.

Distract him.

Sliding my hand down, I push the outside of my wrist against the decorative blade on his hip. The blade slices into me, the pain sharp and immediate.

Rorrik’s hold loosens, and he sucks in a breath at the sudden scent of blood. When he turns my body to the side to investigate the scent, I trip him.

Knife, knife, knife.

Rorrik’s up and standing in a blink, but I pull another silver knife from the sheath in my left boot.

“Clever girl.” A deranged light enters his eyes. He’s having fun .

And why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t even need to touch his power to kill me.

“I’ll give you one thing, you fight smart. Did you always think three steps ahead? Or is it something you had to learn here, where you’re so outmatched?”

The words are casual, but he seems genuinely curious.

“You want to know? Walk away and we can chat about it some other time.”

He tuts. “I’m the reason you’re still breathing. You should be kissing my feet.”

I blink, and Rorrik slaps my blade from my hand, then casually reaches out and shoves me.

I fly through the air and hit the ground. For the first time, I understand how much Tiernon was holding back when he trained me. Vampires are unspeakably strong and fast, and Rorrik is faster than most.

With a grunt, I make it to my knees, but Rorrik follows me, slam ming me onto my back. I don’t wait for him to get comfortable. I swing my arm, smashing my fist into his nose.

He instinctively raises one hand to his face and I attempt to shake him loose.

But it’s too late.

One of his hands encircles my wrists, holding my arms captive between us. The crowd cheers, but I watch Rorrik.

I don’t move. I barely breathe.

Slowly, he brushes one thumb along my throat. The movement is light, unhurried. He’s studying my skin intently, as if looking for something.

I arch my neck, and my eyes meet blazing blue.

Tiernon stands in the pulvinar. Ripping his helmet off, he mouths something to me.

Strong fingers dig into my face. “I don’t like to be ignored.” Rorrik’s eyes shine with an unhinged, victorious light.

He’s going to break my jaw. I wince, and his fingers immediately loosen. Someone calls out, and Rorrik slowly lifts his head. The crowd goes silent.

I take a shaky breath. “What are you doing? What is this?”

“This?” He continues to strum the length of my neck, switching to mindpathing. “This is a lesson. To you, to Tiernon, and to every person in here.”

“A lesson from who? You?”

“My father. But I’ve never been one to waste the opportunity to prove a point.”

“And that point would be?”

“That’s between me and my brother. You’re merely the tool I’m using to get my point across.”

“If you kill me, Tiernon will kill you .”

Something I can’t place flickers in Rorrik’s eyes, followed immediately by surprise. “You truly believe that, don’t you? I’m sure some part of Tiernon believes it too.”

“Kill her,” someone shouts, and I stiffen.

“What do you think, little novice? Should I give them what they want?” Rorrik asks aloud.

“Mercy!” someone else cries, and Rorrik lets out a hum.

“You looked so fierce stalking into this arena. What were you hoping to achieve?”

“I told you, Hester drugged Maeva.”

“If you’re lying, my father will make me kill you.”

Make. “As if you wouldn’t enjoy it.” My pulse races, and Rorrik drops his gaze to my neck once more.

His distraction allows me to free my arm, and I aim for his face again.

He laughs, capturing my wrist and bringing it to his mouth. Full lips pull back from white teeth, revealing horrifyingly sharp fangs.

“I’m not lying,” I blurt out. “Hester drugged Maeva. It’s against the rules.”

Rorrik’s eyes turn so cold I shudder.

“That may be the case, but I still have to teach you a lesson.”

“You don’t.”

His gaze flicks up to the pulvinar, before meeting mine. “Oh, I do.”

He’s implying he doesn’t have a choice.

My vision speckles, the fear all-encompassing. Rorrik’s breath teases over my wrist. “Relax, darling, you may even enjoy it.”

Prey. He’s making me prey. Flat on my back, trapped and at his mercy, in front of thousands of people who will spread the word. Who will announce my weakness to anyone who will listen.

“Don’t.”

“Hmm. Beg me some more.”

I press my lips together and Rorrik leans even closer. “Beg.”

I won’t.

“It wouldn’t change a thing anyway.” He studies my face. “I could make this feel good, but something tells me you’d hate that even more. Shame.”

His teeth sink into my wrist, and I howl at the insult. The crowd roars.

I buck, straining, writhing like a desperate animal. Rorrik merely holds my wrist tighter, until the backs of my eyes burn.

Don’t you dare cry , I order myself.

He swallows with a pleased, strained sound. For a moment he seems almost human, and my breath catches in my throat.

And then he grunts. I open my eyes, unsure when I slammed them closed. A silver knife is stuck in Rorrik’s shoulder.

Tiernon.

He’s standing at the edge of the pulvinar, his eyes harder than I’ve ever seen them, chest rising and falling with his furious breaths. The emperor looks on, his expression darkly satisfied as he pits his sons against each other.

And yet Tiernon doesn’t leave the pulvinar. He doesn’t take a single step.

Rorrik raises his head, and my blood trickles down my wrist. His wordless conversation with Tiernon is the distraction I need, and I wrench my other hand free, reaching for the knife.

Rorrik hisses out a breath when I rip it from his shoulder, but he’s gone before I can slam it into his heart.

We face each other, and I’m suddenly aware of the crowd once more. A hush falls over the spectators, and Rorrik nods at my dripping wrist.

“That will bleed until a vampire heals it,” he says conversationally.

“I don’t care.”

He shakes his head at me. “Always so stubborn.” He takes a single step forward as if he can’t help himself. “Grant me this indulgence.”

I snort, my gaze drifting toward Tiernon.

Rorrik lets out a strange sound. “If you let him do it, I’ll make you pay.”

Something clicks in the back of my mind.

Vampires have weaknesses too. They’re possessive and territorial over those they consider their prey. And that weakness can be manipulated.

I stare him down. “Beg.”

Rorrik throws back his head, and when he laughs, I have to look away. The emperor’s gaze clashes with mine.

He looks smug. He got the kind of show his people will be talking about for years. And he got to create another wedge between his sons.

“Be serious,” Rorrik croons.

I bow to the emperor, who nods, turning away as if bored. When I begin walking toward the arena exit, Rorrik appears several feet in front of me.

Slowly, he lowers himself to his knees.

The crowd goes silent.

“Allow me,” he murmurs, holding out his hand.

My mind spins with a million thoughts, and yet I can’t grasp any of them. I stare at him blankly. Blood drips onto the sand beneath us, and a muscle jumps in Rorrik’s jaw.

Someone in the crowd yells something I can’t catch. But it nudges me into life. This is what the spectators are watching. The emperor’s son on his knees for me.

No one would ever believe Rorrik is cowed. Not one person would doubt he could rip me apart and feast on me if he chose.

But what this signifies … I much prefer the thought of people leaving with this sight firmly in their minds. Not the sight of me trapped on my back, seconds from begging.

The thought makes fresh fury rise, and yet I anchor myself against my impulses.

Think, Arvelle.

Slowly, I walk toward Rorrik, putting a little swing in my step. His eyes heat with bloodlust.

The moment I’m within his reach, I lower my knife until the silver blade is snug against his throat. The safety it represents is an illusion. I can make him bleed, but he’ll shove the knife away and snap my neck before I kill him.

His eyes meet mine. “You’re learning how the game is played, novice.”

“Get it over with.”

He gestures for my wrist. Slowly, I hold it out, allowing him to take it. But I squeeze the hilt of my knife.

His touch is gentle—as if I’ve given him something precious. His eyes are a molten blue as they meet mine, and I suck in a breath as he drags his warm tongue over the two wounds.

They close almost instantly, my skin scabbing over. I attempt to pull my wrist free, but Rorrik tightens his hold, sweeping his tongue lower, swiping at the blood still dripping from my hand.

My thighs clench, something unmistakable burning in my lower belly. Rorrik’s eyes darken further, until they’re pools of black surrounded by a thin blue ring.

If he can scent fear, he can scent …

“Enough,” I hiss.

He looks up at me, and I can’t deny the sight of him on his knees …

“Do you feel powerful in this moment, darling?”

I don’t reply. He knows I do. Despite the fact that this is a farce. Rorrik may be on his knees, but he’s the one who has all the power. I tug at my wrist. After a long moment, he allows me to pull my hand free.

I turn, more than ready to be done with this.

But haunting screams echo toward me.

I may be done, but the emperor clearly isn’t.