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His lashes lower.

Shadows flicker over his face, and he fixes his stare on the floor between us, like he can’t bring himself to look at me as he says it, “All the way to Ronan’s base.”

A frown cuts into my face. “The seed… The seed that didn’t work—it was you?”

A cruel satisfaction glitters in his eyes. So much pleasure he gets from my demise—poisoned by the sheen that glosses his eyes, the pain that twists his mouth.

I see just as much regret in him as I see victory.

“You orchestrated everything,” I whisper the words I don’t want to believe, a truth that’s too slow to sink in.

He did this.

Daxeel did it all.

He set the trap—and watched me prance right into it.

He always meant for me to come here, to be the sacrifice.

He falls back to sit on the foot of the bed. His hands clasp between his thighs and he looks up at me from beneath his long lashes.

There should be pride in the way he looks at me, pride to match his words; but it’s all so empty, and I’m sure he died long ago. “It was all too easy to bribe a warrior to swap over Ronan’s seed at the base, to pull strings for his service to be suspended—so he can visit his wife before she departs to compete in the Sacrament.”

While she’s fertile, of course. While Ronan is fertile.

The night of the solstice, Ronan returned from the base—and when I got home from the High Court, he was in Pandora’s bedchamber. I left them alone, let them share their intimate moment.

I should have interrupted.

I should have kicked that door down.

I should have known.

I came here to the Midlands with something that feels so ugly now, so ridiculous.

Hope.

Hope that Daxeel would forgive me over time. Hope that Daxeel would love me again. Hope that he would save me from both my father and Taroh.

Ugly, silly hope.

All this time, Daxeel knew I would become a contender. He is the reason I am one. He knew I was Pandora’s only option for a second, and how exactly to have her disqualified.

The tears flow freely down my blotched cheeks.

I lift my dazed stare to him, but don’t truly see him. “And Eamon?”

Did he help?

Did he know?

“Eamon thought he was protecting you.” He tilts his head and hair falls into his eyes. “But he unwittingly sold you to me.”

My brow knits. The weakest frown drawn from my battered energy. A question.

“Eamon made a bargain on the chance that Dorcha wins this Sacrament. He needed to ensure his place in our dark world—so he did some favours here and there.”

My lips are wet around the whispered echo, “Favours…?”