Loving the Forbidden Prince

ETAN

A minute later Etan was sweating, panting, and struggling to get a read on his opponent. The man was slippery as an eel and he hadn't been able to get a good grip on his whip-fast limbs, or bring his weight to bear. But curiously, the man also hadn't engaged him properly, but seemed determined to wear him out by feinting and forcing Etan to dance across the arena to keep himself from being gripped. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought the Warrior lacked confidence. There had been a moment when he'd shifted to avoid a lightning-fast spear-hand to his ribs and he'd been off balance for half a breath.

A seasoned warrior could have slid in and brought him down. But this Challenger hesitated and lost the opportunity as Etan got his foot back—along with his focus.

Was the warrior young? Or simply drawing out the fight?

Was he being measured, or was he already wanting, and being toyed with?

Etan didn't know. He knew only that this man had the fastest hands he'd ever seen outside of Borsche. And all his focus was needed to stop the man getting a hold of him and turning him over his shoulder.

So, they circled and punched, thrusted, blocked, and kicked and Etan was frustrated to never land a true blow—but his heart was eased to know the Warrior also hadn't truly taken him, either.

The crowd had begun nearly silent, but their tension increased with every feint and thrust, until the roars of both protest and bloodlust would have been overwhelming, but Etan had sunk into his fighting mind and was untouched by anything but the view and sound of his opponent.

He wished he'd had a chance to speak with Borsche before the fight began. He knew Borsche had fought Ninchant Warriors before. He'd always dryly suggested Etan avoid conflict with them wherever possible, though he had the impression Borsche had been successful in at least some of his encounters.

"Surprise is key," his man had said. "They fight with honor, and intention. They give no quarter. But they also will not seek conflict with you. They will allow you to strike first. If you can take them off-guard… that is your best chance."

His breath heaving because he was forced to move his larger, heavier body in response to the Warrior's lithe and light frame, Etan knew if they continued as they were he would lose. His only choice was to try to find an unexpected attack…

Then inspiration hit.

He guessed the Warrior had noted his earlier loss of balance and planned to use it against him. With a grim smile, Etan circled, waiting for the man to take one of his whip-fast slides and—there! As the Warrior slid forward, his feet seeming barely to move and Etan was forced to dance aside or be taken in the gut, he dropped his shoulder and pretended to swing.

But when the Warrior's eye lit and he stepped in again, Etan planted his feet and blocked his opponent's thrust with one hand while throwing a solid jab to the ribs with the other.

The Warrior cried out in a high voice—an impossible voice that sang in Etan's chest and as they danced apart, Etan's mouth dropped open.

His opponent's eyes, clouded with pain, shot up to meet his as he whispered, "Ayleth?"

"Shit," she hissed.

Etan dropped his guard, eyes wide. "I can't—"

He wouldn't fault her later for taking advantage of his distraction. Had he been in her shoes, he would have done the same. But he barely registered that she moved, before his arm was wrenched, and the hard-packed dirt was rising to meet his face.

He grunted with the impact and tried to roll, but she still had his arm and she yanked it up and braced the elbow so he couldn't bend it without breaking his own arm. With his arm pinned and locked, she drew back a knife-hand, readied to strike at his throat, but left it as a threat. Their eyes locked—hers alarmed, his shocked.

Head spinning, he simply lay there, gaping at her as the Umpire counted three and the crowd erupted.

Neither of them moved for a moment, and even when she began to relax, realizing she'd won, he was impressed to see she didn't lose her defensive stance.

She dropped his arm and straightened, offering him a hand. "I'm sorry, Etan," she murmured as he took it and allowed her to brace to bring him to his feet.

Ayleth never turned her back, even after he nodded, but simply backed away to her place on the line and waited, her eyes on him even as the Master of Ceremonies tried to call the people to order and they both bowed to the King, then to each other.

Her bright blue eyes shone, half with joy, and half with fear as they turned back to the King and a stunned Etan listened to his own defeat announced. At the hands of his future-wife.

"The Zenithran Challenger takes the victory!" the Master of Ceremonies crowed, and the crowd went wild, stamping their feet and applauding above their heads—even the Royals. Even the ladies were on their feet.

Etan stared at her, marveling, uncertain exactly how he felt. He wanted to cheer with them, applaud what she'd achieved, her courage. And yet, he couldn't deny that it was a blow to his pride. And the risk she'd taken! He might have killed her without even knowing it was she!

He never would have thrown that punch—which he knew must be throbbing and may have cracked a rib. At best she would be sore for days, though she didn't let it show now as she stood, nodding to the crowd and waving. He couldn't see her mouth, didn't know if she was smiling or not… He shook his head.

Then he caught Borsche gaping and realized he must have figured out who she was. Their eyes locked and Borsche shook his head and shrugged, which summed up how Etan was feeling.

The King was on his feet and leaning over the railing again, and soon the Master of Ceremonies returned to the podium, flushed and beaming. "The King would reward his champion. Sir, please, reveal your face and give the King your name so he might honor you!"

Etan sucked in a breath. Ayleth's eyes went wide, and he saw her glance at her Knight Defender who'd stayed at the sidelines as her coach. He gave her a slow shrug and she blinked, then bowed, before reaching back to begin unravelling her scarf.

The crowd went silent as her fine features were revealed, then finally the twist of her long red hair, which she reached back and gripped, pulling it out long and loose, and shaking it free.

Etan swallowed as desire for her surged in his belly, but fear sent him measuring the King, who stood at the railing, stunned, his mouth open—clearly unaware that his daughter and Heir had chosen to fight.

Had he even known she could?

Etan braced to protect her if her father took any untoward actions in anger.

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