The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 73

Chapter 73: Seventy Three

Lucien

A Hundred And Seventy-Some Years Ago.

The mercenary was slight.

Somewhere around five foot six. Built more for speed than strength. He looked like a single swing could snap his ribs in half. And yet his feet were planted in the blood-wet sand with a stance that mirrored my own--firm, grounded.

A hood covered most of his face, but it did nothing to hide the soft, sinful curve of a mouth too pretty to belong to a man. He was bleeding, too, not where I could see, but the scent of iron curled around him like perfume.

The rancour above us built to a dreadful level. The thing in my chest needing an out. Violence. Perhaps, it was unseemingly for the king to belittle himself doing things like this, but I couldn’t fight it anymore. These days, I could hardly remember what they looked like. I didn’t deserve to forget. I deserved more pain. The fracture in my chest would never leave. Waking up with ash in my mouth would never stop. The years may drag on, but the wound only stretched wider. And on days like this when the alcohol or herbs didn’t help sleep come easier, I knew it was yet another day of reckoning. And if pain was the only thing that reminded me I was alive, then so be it.

I jerk my chin toward my opponent, eyes trained on the pit-lord, whose coin belts sit heavy tonight. "He is injured. This will be no fair fight."

It was the mercenary who spoke, voice soft, nearly feminine as he lifted twin daggers, spreading his foot. "Can’t stand a little blood, pretty boy?"

The crowd erupted in a set of goading ’oohs’. I cocked my head as he moved, studying me with eyes I could not see, but could feel burning into my skin. He was so small, it was ridiculous how easy it would be to merely reach for his neck and disconnect it from his shoulders. But he seemed not to notice that as he circled me with a swagger, daggers twirling in his hands like toys.

I’d heard so much smack talk over the years I’d visited the pits. But no one ever called me ’boy’. Not since I was a handful of years.

My mouth tightened, the crowd growing restless and louder. The willowy pit-lord looked us over and snarled, "No sorcery. No magic. No weapons."

The mercenary rolled a blade on a single finger. "Disappointing," he said, before sheathing his weapons.

"Names," the pit-lord demanded.

My opponent seemed to consider it for a moment. "Eldric."

He didn’t look, carry or sound like an Eldric.

"Pretty boy," I responded, smiling under the mask of the fox that encompasses my face. The mouth under my opponent’s hood curved into a smile.

The crowd was frenzied, shoving to the railings of the bloodied pit that reeked of piss and vomit and the death of numerous other fighter who have entered from those steel gates. Last minutes bets were made. My opponent paced around me in circles. I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. I had no blind spots.

And the pit-lord roared for the match to begin.

My opponent moved with a punch so swift, most men would have had their heads spun around. But I dodge it, catching his short arm in one hand, locking it into a bone-snapping hold. A wisp of blonde hair fell out from under the hood before he hooks his free elbow so deep into my rib, I felt my bones shatter.

I released him on instinct, doubling over, and he drove his knee into the side of my head twice.

My ears rang as I pull back, wiping blood from my mouth as I reassessed my opponent. He rolled his shoulder, widening his stance. Slight as he might be, he was skilled. A worthy rival.

A smile parted my lips. "Where did you learn to fight?"

He raised his fists, circling me once more. "In my father’s shop. I didn’t have anything better to do."

"Does your father smell like jasmine, too?"

He faltered a step and I ran for him, grabbing for his hood. Perhaps, I wanted to see what was underneath. Perhaps, it was the excitement of finding someone worthy of my time, someone who could beat the living shit out of me, for once. But before my fingers touched cloth, he spun, vaulted, and climbed my body like a damned spider. His legs clamped around my neck, wrenching me into the sand with a bone-jarring thud.

Unusual, to say the least. And not nearly as painful as the thought of having a stranger’s balls hanging far too close to my royal face. Growling, I grabbed his trousers, intent on sending him sailing ten feet across the pit. But his thighs only clamped tighter around my neck, forcing a wheeze out of me.

"I’ve had women beg for this position. And I can assure you, you’re doing it wrong."

"Don’t flatter yourself," he said, tightening his hold and I felt all the blood run to my head. "You are not my type."

I wrenched him off me before he could crush my windpipe. He landed in the sand a few feet away, returning to his feet almost immediately like a roach in the same moment I straighten.

His hood was still intact. Absurd. I hadn’t needed to put in effort to win a fight in years--decades, perhaps. The very idea that this one demanded my focus set my blood singing.

Excitement spiked dangerously high.

His breath was hot against my ear, and for a moment, I caught a whiff of shampoo, and something rather sweet. "And yet they’re cheering my name, not yours. Yield."

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