Bonds of Cupidity (Heart Hassle Book 2)

Turns out, the second day of the culling sucks just as bad as the first day did.

We’re in our seats again, sans goodie bags, and I’ve bitten my nails down to stubs. Okot grabs hold of the fingers currently at mercy to my teeth and tugs them away.

I try to chew on my left-hand fingers instead, but he grabs that hand, too.

“Okot,” I snap.

He shrugs, not at all sorry for interfering in my nervous gnawing.

He keeps both my hands beneath his, resting on his forearm as he calmly strokes me. “They have not even been brought out yet, my beloved.”

“I know,” I groan, tapping my feet on the floor nervously. “The waiting is awful. Almost as awful as watching.”

“They will make it through.”

“They better, or I’ll go back into the Veil, drag them back to this realm, and force those assholes to become cupids.”

Okot chuckles. “The frowning one would not be a good cupid at all.”

I smile at the image of Ronak breathing some Lust into people’s faces while scowling. “Oh my gods can you just see him with my pink hair?” Even under current stressful circumstances, I can’t help but laugh. “He’d probably be called to the superiors and terminated after a week for trying to kill people with Love Arrows.”

“Perhaps the other two would fare better.”

“Nah, only Sylred.”

My nice distraction is cut off at the sound of the gong. The pile of threads in my stomach instantly tangle into knots of unease again as I raise my monocular to look at the royals.

Prince Elphar stands, just as regal and composed as ever. His dark-blue hair is slicked back, his skin matching the pale blue of the sky. He raises a hand over the crowd, demanding silence in the amphitheater.

So because I’m super mature, I clear my throat. Loudly. Then I do it again, because fuck him. It’s not like he can hear my small rebellious act of noise, but it makes me feel better, so I do it again until the faes behind us shush me.

Okot turns and glares at them. They stop their shushing and look away pretty fast.

“Today marks the second day of the culling trials. Sixteen contestants will enter. Two groups will be formed. The winning group lives. Let the culling begin!”

The gong sounds, and just like last time, a portal is opened by a high fae. Sixteen contestants march out, one after another, looking even worse for wear than the last time. Whatever the prince said about having time to “rest” between competitions was clearly a lie.

I hiss through my teeth when I see the state of my guys, and my hand flies to my mouth. “What the fuck happened to them?”

Sylred’s shirt is ripped and spotted with blood, and he’s limping badly. Evert has no shoes, and he’s wearing a makeshift sling over his left arm. Ronak is missing a shirt altogether, and I realize that’s what Evert’s sling is made out of. Ronak’s face is bruised and battered, one eye swollen shut.

Who knows how long they were beaten and by how many. The fact that Evert can’t use his powers to stitch up their cuts and scrapes because of the magic iron cell makes it even worse. The rest of the contestants don’t look much better, so I guess it was an equal opportunity beating.

A grim look crosses Okot’s face. “Looks like the prince showed his appreciation for the contestants working together at the last competition.”

My eyes glance to the prince, watching his smug expression as he looks down at the beaten and bruised contestants. My hands curl into furious fists. “Oh, I’m going to ki—”

Okot cuts me off by taking hold of my chin and forcing me to look at him. His red eyes glance left and right, reminding me of who’s around and listening.

I force myself to take a steadying breath. Right. Can’t threaten to kill the prince of the realm in front of his loyal subjects. Especially when said subjects are fae, and fae like nothing more that to stir shit up.

Yeah, they’d hand me over in a second.

“Thanks,” I grumble.

Okot nods and releases me just as the gong goes off.

The bottom of the arena shimmers slightly, and then the contestants disappear, only to reappear again, eight on one side and eight on the other. The magic arena has turned into a battlefield.

The two teams have been dressed in opposing colors. One side has black armor, the other shining gold. My guys are in black.

I can tell that something’s wrong by the reaction that all the contestants are having to the blue-glowing swords that are now in their hands.

Some of them are shaking their arms, some are trying to pry the swords out of their grips, and some are just staring down at them in horror. My guys are looking at them with a sort of grim acceptance.

“What’s happening? What is it?”

“It’s the king’s power. The swords are Beluar Blades.”

“What does that mean?”

Okot doesn’t take his eyes off the contestants. “It means the metal has a will of its own. The contestants are mere bearers.”

I gulp. “So you’re saying…”

“That they have no choice but to fight each other to the death.”

My eyes widen in horror as I stare down at them. “They did this because the contestants helped each other last time.”

“It would seem so, yes.”

I look up at the royal box. Prince Elphar and King Beluar look way too pleased with themselves. I realize that this isn’t just meant to be a spectacle to the masses. This punishment is personal.

“Okot, these contestants…why were they banished?”

He leans in close to my ear so he won’t be overheard. “From what I’ve heard, most of them don’t deserve it, with the exception being only two or three.”

I wonder if he counts Ronak attacking the prince as “deserving.” I don’t ask.

Okot goes on. “The prince counts disloyalty as anything from a fae not giving up his wife so the prince can sleep with her, to not bestowing the crown with the land or money he wants.”

“And so he banishes them, forces them from their homes, resources, and their families for years, and then tosses them into his death games?”

“Yes.”

I watch as the contestants face their opposing team and a huge wooden scoreboard magically appears on the side of the arena, like this is nothing more than a trivial sport. The blue glow of the swords hovers around the metal like an eerie aura.

Then the gong sounds. There is no warming up. No tentative swings or deflects. The swords do indeed have minds of their own; and they are vicious little fuckers.

There is only one female fae left, and it’s clear that the long sword is too heavy for her. It nearly drags on the dirt ground as it pulls her forward. She’s crying. I can see the tears falling from her eyes as she tries to fight the sword’s hold and get it out of her hand.

With both hands on the sword, it drags her forward, and even though she digs her heels in to try to stop her progress, she keeps going, leaving drag marks in the dirt behind her. The sword will not be deterred.

Her opponent is trying to get rid of his sword, too, but the second she’s within striking range, it jerks up, lifting his arm, and swings down at her.

It’s strange to watch. It looks more like puppets being pulled on by strings. A macabre spectacle to show everyone exactly who is in charge. Spoiler alert: it’s not the fae holding the swords.

One powerful swing is all it takes for the female fae to lose her head. Her body crashes to the ground in a puddle of blood, her head rolling away, and a point goes up for the gold team on the scoreboard.

The crowd cheers.

I want to shriek, cry, or cover my eyes, but I can’t, because there are seven other fights going on, too. Some of the contestants seem to work with the swords better than others. Ronak is one of them.

Even though I know the sword is the one with the bloodlust, Ronak handles it with refined skill. It seems like the less the contestants fight against the will of the blade, the more it acts as an extension of their arms, rather than a puppet master.

Ronak’s opponent is smaller than him, but he obviously has some skill with a sword, because they’re somewhat evenly matched. Ronak’s muscles flex, shining with sweat, but I wince when his bare chest gets sliced with a tip of a blade and blood trails down his skin.

When the crowd gasps, my eyes swing to find the reason for it, and my heart leaps in my throat at the scene.

Evert is on his back, dazed and struggling to catch his breath on the ground.

I’m standing before realizing it, my fingers gripping the railing as I lean over. “Get up, get up, get up.”

But he’s hurt. His already injured arm hinders him from getting back to his feet, and his other hand still clutches the sword.

There’s a deep gash in his right thigh and blood is puddling under him. For him to have lost that much blood that quickly, I know the blade had to have hit an artery.

His opponent pauses, not wanting to hit Evert while he’s down, but the sword has other ideas and lifts his arm up anyway, swinging it down in a killing blow.

“No!”

I watch the sword arc down, straight for Evert’s heart.

Time slows.

My entire body tenses with unimaginable grief and helplessness. Evert watches the blade coming for him, knowing he can’t do a thing to stop it, and closes his eyes to accept his fate.

The sword comes down.

And jolts against the blade of another. The sound of metal clashing reverberates in my eardrums. I stare, wide-eyed at Ronak.

He’s bleeding, he’s fierce, and he’s completely feral. The genfin animal has come out to fight. His slitted golden eyes, his poised tail, and his animalistic roar that erupts from his throat stalls the entire crowd.

With his preternatural power of strength, he slaps the opposing blade away from Evert. He grabs the arm of the contestant and, like he weighs nothing, sends him soaring across the arena.

The man slams into the wooden wall, his body exploding in a pile of blood, bones, and splintered wood.

Dead on impact.

The gold team rears back from their own fighting to watch, and then, as one, their swords all pull the unwilling contestants towards Ronak.

It seems their new objective is to end him.

But feral Ronak isn’t deterred. Even as six male fae come barreling toward him, he shows no fear. His animal side knows no fear.

When they surround him, I clutch the railing even harder, splinters cutting into my palms.

He’s strong and he’s a good fighter, but against six? And when those six all carry murderous blades intent on killing him? How can he possibly get through this?

I can see in the six male faces that they are no longer hesitant to fight. They’ve accepted the drive of their blades. Their will to survive is stronger than their hesitation to kill.

The moment the first wave of three fae are upon him, he leaps and twists midair. Swinging his sword, he cuts down all three of them in a single swipe.

Holy shit.

The last three stop running to watch the bodies fall to the ground. Doubt and fear flicker across their faces.

A fight that they ran toward, one that they thought was in the bag, suddenly doesn’t look like such a sure win.

And Ronak? He looks more animalistic than ever. His spine is curved, his nails have elongated into terribly sharp claws, and I can see sharp canines have punched through his gums.

Whoa. I’ve never seen him go that animal before.

He stalks them all like prey. He toys with them as he circles around, his eyes and tail flicking simultaneously.

I can see the wariness of his team hanging back, helping the injured teammates back to their feet. Sylred is kneeling beside Evert as he attempts to heal himself.

Then one of the contestants on the gold team makes the mistake of turning his head to look at Evert still lying on the ground, and Ronak totally snaps.

A great roar rips through the air, vibrating the very oxygen I breathe, and causing the little hairs on the back of my neck to rise up.

Ronak runs at him, not even using the sword anymore, and rips the fae’s head right off his body.

The last two gold contestants try to run away, but I see their mistake as soon as they do—without thinking, they run toward Evert and Sylred’s direction.

I cringe.

Ronak leaps between them, protecting his covey in animalistic possessiveness. He stabs one of them through the chest and ploughs through the other, knocking him flat on his back before shoving the blade through him as well.

In what feels like hours, but could really be no more than a couple of minutes, he’s ended them all. When he’s done, panting in the middle of bodies and covered in their blood, I can’t help but stare down at him in horror.

The scoreboard dings six times.

The gong sounds.

The crowd’s cheering grows to uncomfortably loud proportions. The amphitheater vibrates with stomping feet and clapping hands. The second day of culling is over. So are the lives of ten contestants. Eight golds and two blacks. Eight of those at the hand of Ronak.

I don’t know whether to feel relieved that my guys made it through, or horrified at how.

When the portal is opened and the surviving six are led away, it takes both Sylred and Evert to calm Ronak enough to get him to go through. Even the guards give him a wide berth.

I desperately want to fly down there—to get his animal side to recede, but I can’t. Instead, I have to watch him growling, spitting, gnashing his teeth as Evert and Sylred pull him through.

“I have to see him.”

Okot takes hold of my arm, forcing my eyes away from all the dead bodies that litter the arena floor. “We cannot. At least not yet.”

“I have to,” I say desperately. “He’s feral, Okot. I can help. I need to pull him out of it, I need to—”

Okot bends down so we’re looking eye-to-eye and holds my chin, forcing me to meet his eye. “There’s nothing you can do right now. He has his covey. They’ll take care of him.”

“But he’s going to regret it,” I say through a choked sob that wants to escape. “When he switches back and realizes what he’s done, it’ll hurt him. I know he acts like an asshole, but he’s honorable. He’ll hate what he’s done.”

Okot pulls me against his chest and rubs my back, and I don’t care about the departing fae that cast us curious looks. They can all go jump off the balcony for all I care.

Some of them are collecting money from bets, some of them are laughing, going about their days as if we didn’t just watch ten fae get killed and one genfin totally lose it because a member of his covey was threatened.

“I hate this,” I say, pulling back from him. “I hate pretending.”

“I know. Unfortunately, we’re not done pretending today.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s tradition that on the eve of the final part of the culling, the royals hold a ball. Everyone is required to attend.”

“Okay, so we have to go to a ball. That’s not so bad.”

Okot grimaces. “Everyone is required to attend,” he says again. “Including the contestants.”

I gape up at him. Me, the guys, and the prince, all in one place.

Well, fuck a fae. We’re so screwed.