Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Ada

C allum doesn't even know I'm here and watching. He might be upset or angry… it might distract him if he notices me.

I cannot imagine Callum being angry ever.

Upset maybe.

Distracted, definitely, yes.

"I need to leave," I say, suddenly convinced that this was the worst idea ever.

My words are lost as the pit door opens and the crowd roars as Callum and his opponent step inside.

My eyes drink him in; his broad shoulders and thick abdominals, which I only glimpse when we sneak out the back of the tavern, are displayed under the glisten of the many lanterns. He turns, shaking out his arms, giving me a view of his broad, muscular back and his pants clinging to his tight ass.

He lifts one hand, raking his hair back from his face, setting muscles rippling.

His form is breathtaking, and my tummy takes a slow, sensual dip. I think about only a couple of nights ago when he pinned me to the bale of hay, pushed up my skirt, and, with a wicked grin on his lips, put his mouth on me intimately until I was twitching and coming for him.

I wonder how many women here look at him and wish they were the one.

My thoughts lurch wildly between jealousy, lustful admiration, and fear for what will come.

He turns as if he can feel my gaze, and his eyes skim over the crowd before they settle on me.

My breath catches. The crowd begins to chant. They might as well not exist.

He sees me.

He sees me.

Goddess, what have I done in coming here?

Betsy clamps her hand over mine and emits an excited squeal.

Callum turns away.

The two men nod to one another, lift their hands, and assume a fighting stance… and then clash.

My mind empties. I think I might be sick.

For big men, they move fast. Callum is taller, but his opponent is heavyset and looks to carry more weight. I cannot watch, and yet I cannot look away as they trade blows, kick, and grapple with one another.

The past and present fight for dominance. I am here, but I am also on my knees in a cell clinging to Betsy, listening to the sounds of violence until finally, the cell door is flung open, and Callum enters with a hammer in his right hand that drips with blood.

He is no stranger to violence.

He is more than an apprentice blacksmith.

The movements seem too fast, almost a blur, and I cannot keep pace with them. I feel every blow he takes like it is landing upon me. I suffer conflicted joy when he lands a sound blow upon his opponent, making the other man stagger back or grunt.

This fight feels different from the earlier bouts, not only because Callum is down there, for even my untrained eyes can see these men have greater skills. It reminds me of what Betsy said about the later fights being set aside for the experienced fighters.

I see the man I love in a new light and the raw components of who he is beneath the skin. My father was a vicious thug who put his hands on me with violence far too often and never once with kindness. I have ever been aware of what lurks beneath the surface of men, how they have an animal within them, whether they are shifters or not.

In a sudden, swift move, Callum takes his opponent down to the ground. The crowd surges to their feet with a roar. I am also out of my seat, trying desperately to see over the taller men before me.

Betsy tugs on my arm, urging me to stand beside her on the seat. This elevates us to the height of the men in front. I can peer through the shoulders and see down into the pit just as Callum's opponent rolls above him and swings his fist.

Blood splatters. My scream is lost in the frenzy of the crowd. Callum bucks his body, tossing the other man off before he rolls, and they both regain their feet.

Fists land against the jaw and chest, a knee to the belly, and an elbow to the face.

Then Callum charges, picking the other man clean up off the floor before slamming him back to the ground. His fists swing, and he pummels on his opponent's face.

The jostling crowd makes it difficult to see, and all I get is the odd glimpse.

I ought to be frightened of Callum, a man capable of so much violence and destruction. He ought to disgust me. Yet he is not my father and doesn't deserve to be even considered in the same breath as that wretched excuse of humanity who only ever abused me or hurt me with words and fists. The world is full of villains. One cannot live in Bleakness and be blind to this fact. My father is one of many weak men exerting cruelty over those they should protect.

Callum is so much more than ordinary. Like layers are being peeled before my eyes, I see ever-richer aspects of who he is. Such a man could keep me safe and make sure no one dared snatch me away.

He could protect me.

He could keep our future children safe.

Not because he can fight in a pit, but because he is the kind of man who took steps to see my father gone, so I might feel safe. Because he is the kind of man who raids the slave market at great risk to himself to rescue Betsy and me.

In this moment of acute awareness, it dawns upon me that, were it necessary, this man would follow me to the ends of the earth to save me.

With Callum, I would always be safe.

I wish I did not live in this world where a woman needs a man in this way, that instead I lived where the strong do not prey upon the weak, where women might be free to walk the streets late at night without fear of attack or lecherous intentions.

We do not. At least, it is not the way of things in Bleakness.

Maybe in those forests far away, where the deer and foxes play, there are places where only men of Callum's ilk live and where women never need to fear.

I would like to believe that such a place does exist somewhere. But that is not this place. That is not my reality. That is not Bleakness.

The blows continue to rain down. The other man no longer moves.

I cannot see what happens next as the crowds in front of me raise their arms and cheer.

"Goddess, what is it?" I demand of Betsy, hoping she might see better than me. She is a little taller, but I don't think it is much help.

"Pa," she calls to Tim. "What has happened?"

Tim grins from ear to ear. "Callum has won," he says. "I knew the lad would!"

Gray

The facts are glaringly obvious.

His speed and agility are preternatural.

He is no beta but a latent alpha.

He is also a shifter, although he has clearly never shifted and, for whatever reason, knows nothing of his heritage.

"He has green eyes," Drake observes, snagging my attention and bringing a further prickling sensation to the back of my neck.

The roar of the crowd washes over me as I let his words settle in. I want to reject my instincts that Callum is a shifter—I want to dispute the indisputable facts.

"You know what that means."

"It means nothing," I say bitterly as we take our seats. The fight is over. Callum, victorious, walks out. His opponent is not so lucky. "The whelp cannot even shift."

"But he could—and will—if you coach him. Regardless, you know exactly what it means for his eyes to be that color."

I do. Green eyes in a shifter are unusual—unique. The sense of defeat is sharp and filled with despair. I'd already told myself Ada was not for me, that I have a fucking mission, and that it is not one that involves claiming a mate, especially not when the woman I am promised to is a prisoner of orcs. Yet, as I stare down at the pit where Callum so recently raised his arms in victory, I cannot dispute the final, bitterest fact of all.

The whelp—the man I am loath to admit is my competition; the one who, as Drake has already surmised, has me beaten by a mile—carries royal shifter blood.