Voice gone husky, he murmured, "Your irises grow lighter, female. I'm not the only one who enjoyed what happened between us."
She swallowed. "Because I thought you were another." She glanced over at Cas. A horde of females cooed over his slight injuries, jockeying to fondle his muscles. Bettina wondered if she had any place at all in his thoughts.
Daciano gripped her upper arm, drawing her attention back. "I ask you again, will you pay what you owe?"
She raised her chin. "Up to a point."
"To a point? That wasn't one of the terms of the deal."
"I'm still a lady-a princess! I expect to be treated as such. And I'm still embroiled in this tournament. As soon as this farce began, I knew I'd be held to certain . . . standards." By ancient law, Bettina could be stoned to death for breaking the terms of the contract. "I won't jeopardize my life by sleeping with you."
"Meet me in my tent at midnight, and I promise you," he said, his voice dropping even lower, "that I will treat you like a lady." Such innocuous words, but the way he said them . . .
"What if I can't sneak away tonight? I won't be alone." Salem would surely tell Raum if he learned of this. And her godfather would shift to second gear-battle-ax to the brain.
Which would probably only get Raum killed by the menacing vampire.
"Then I'll come to you."
"That's not possible," she snapped. "I'll figure something out." She thought she could get the guards outside her doors to take the night off, but would Salem balk? "This will count as . . . five boons."
"One."
"Three," she countered. When he inclined his head in agreement, she asked, "Which tent is yours?"
"The quarters of the slain vampire. Look for my standard."
Then he disappeared.
She sagged, yearning for the privacy of her rooms. Now that her royal responsibilities were over, nothing was stopping her from returning. Nothing except for herself.
The winding, foggy lane to the castle was a short stroll filled with beings, but to her, it rolled on . . . and on . . . and on. . . .
She could call guards to escort her, but her kingdom was a safe place. It would send the wrong message. Plus, she didn't want others to know of her fear. In the Lore, fear equaled weakness. Weakness eventually equaled death, even for an immortal.
There are crowds all around, she told herself, nothing can get me. But then, she had been within earshot of crowds when the four had attacked her.
Bettina remembered getting dressed with friends before going out that night. She'd thought, A rave out in a poppy field-what could possibly go wrong . . . ?
Though her bones had healed seamlessly, at times like this she could swear she still felt the fractures aching.
Rubbing her arms, she took a few tentative steps, breaths shallowing, anxiety constricting her chest. Anxiety and anger-at the Vrekeners who'd twisted her. At herself for becoming a shell of the old Bettina.
She'd once been bold(ish) and quick to laugh, generally happy. She had never imagined she'd end up like this-a timorous, incapacitated mess.
Sheer will netted her a few more steps. But when she made it to a well-lit storefront, she froze, glued to its safety as if soldered there.
Someone would soon come along to walk with her. Surely. For now, think of other things.
As she feigned interest in a shelf of figurines on sale, her thoughts returned to Daciano. He'd entered for her hand-not because he was a glory hound or because he'd been condemned on his home plane.
No, apparently he'd surrendered his home forever.
And once the tournament had begun, that vampire had been the only one who'd acknowledged her, acknowledged that he'd fought for her. No one else had even looked at her. Not even Caspion.
Cas had been helpless not to respond to those battle groupies surrounding him, especially the voluptuous demonesses. My hips will never be that round, my br**sts that plump. The one bad thing about freezing into immortality? If unhappy with your appearance, you were eternally screwed.
Yet even the slim demonesses got a swoon-inducing grin from Cas. In fact, it seemed there was only one female he didn't respond to.
Me.
Five minutes passed. Ten. She'd begun meandering through the store, picking up a figurine here, a vase there. But soon, the shopkeeper started insisting that Bettina take them all as gifts, refusing any offers to pay.
"No, please. I'm just resting a bit inside your lovely store. I couldn't accept more." And there went another vase into a bag.
Bettina was unable to leave, and equally unable to decline the merchandise without insulting the kindly shopkeeper.
I don't even like knickknacks! Morgana would never have this problem. Bettina's deadly patroness wouldn't. Those two Sorceri females always got what they wanted.
Why can't I?
When the shopkeeper began looking for a larger bag, Bettina inwardly groaned.
Ultimately, she accepted all the offerings with a strained smile, then forced herself to turn toward the exit.
Outside, the buildings loomed taller, the alleys twisting narrower and darker. As she cautiously peered upward, that familiar seed of anxiety started to seethe in her chest-the one that wouldn't stop growing until she was covered with sweat, shaking with fear, gasping for breath.
She was trapped, standing at the threshold like an idiot, clutching her sack like a life preserver.
I hate this! When did I become that girl-the pushover afraid of her own shadow?