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My pulse jumps as he steps back up onto the dais.

“I’m not squaring off with that fucker,” he mutters. “You want it?“

“Fuck yeah,” I grin, jumping to my feet.

“Try not to let your boner show on the way down,” Nico mutters. I flip him off and jump off the dais. Then I pick up the pistols, checking them for a single shot each before I walk over to Lorenzo.

“You seem confident.”

He smirks. “Little bit.”

I smile coldly, even though he can’t see it through my mask.

We’ll see, fucker.

Two guards escort him over to the center of the stone circle. We stand back to back as The Stag stands and reminds us we’ll be taking ten paces each and then turning to shoot.

My blood pumps hot. My skin tingles with the thrill.

Motherfucking DUELING pistols, baby!

“One.”

We each take a step.

“Two.”

We keep going as The Stag counts—three, four, five, six, seven—my blood roaring in my ears as my finger wraps around the trigger.

“Eight.”

I grin wider.

“Nine.”

Hell to the fucking yes.

“Ten.”

I’ll give him this, Lorenzoisa quick draw. And I bet he’s a great shot, too.

Or would have been, if he’d had time to pull the trigger before my shot ripped through his forehead.

AmI a better shot than fucking pre-Olympic all New York, blah blah fucking guy?

Probably not.

But when you’re fueled by pure determination and thedick-hardeningthrill of getting to use those fucking dueling pistols,finally?

The sky’s the limit.

There’s no post-trial meeting tonight. So when they drag Lorenzo’s corpse away, the onlookers begin to murmur and laugh, changing from spectators to partiers.

Stag lands a hand on my back. “Nice shot,” he growls. He nods at the crowd, mostly the women who are already in various states of undress. “Joining us?”

I give him a look. “What do you think?”

He chuckles. “I think I’ll be seeing you another time. Hi to Milena for me.”