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No longer could I deny the truth. No more ignoring how my instincts screamed that the sorceress wasmine.

“Runa,” I wheezed, the name sacred on my tongue.

My mate peered at me, resignation dulling the fire that I admired so much in her lavender eyes. “I am the thief and you the clever leader.”

“No,” I growled. She believed she was about to die.

Tears wet her eye lashes, trailing down her cheeks. “Promise you will watch over my brothers.”

“Runa, I cannot—”

“Then lie and make me believe you,” she demanded, jaw tightening, voice steely even as it wavered. “So that my soul may rest.”

“I swear,” I said, and she exhaled, as if surrendering, until I added, “I swear, should Idris end you, I will place his severed head on a pike.Thenyour soul will rest.”

A startled laugh burst from her lips, tears dripping off her chin. “Not what I requested, but I almost believed it.”

As she should. I meant every word. This beautiful, courageous woman didn’t deserve to die in this manner.

Above us, the magical screen flickered. The ticking numbers settled on their final count, deciding our fates.

“Very well, Carcerem. It appears we have a winner,” Idris boomed.

The crowd roared, but I avoided looking at the totals.

“Victor Custodis, welcome to the final round.”

The cheers rang hollow in my ears. Darkness splintered my psyche. Cracks formed.

It was a cruel and brilliant game the king played. Even though I’d won, I’d lost. Like Runa’s brothers, I wanted to shout, curse, and thrash. None of that would help Runa in her final moments.

Instead, I met her eyes. She’d not go through this alone. I wouldn’t look away, no matter how difficult it would be to watch my mate slaughtered.

“I’m with you, pet,” I murmured in my most soothing voice.

“Runa!” the sorceress’s brothers roared their anguish.

I resisted the urge to bellow my shouts of outrage, adding my pain to theirs. Runa needed me, and I would not falter.

Beneath the confusion, another sound emerged.

Across the circle, a scaled demon sputtered and gagged. I darted a quick glance in his direction. Blood leaked from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Blisters, like tiny, agonizing bubbles, erupted on his green skin, as if he boiled from the inside out.

Was he dying? My pulse skipped. Hope teetered on a razors edge. Every muscle, every cell strained with the possibility.

I’d never desired another’s death with this level of intensity. Not even Tiberius Steele’s.

“Help. Help me,” the creature gurgled, then fell limp in his restraints.

Slime and excrement dripped from his decimated frame.

The demon was dead.

Gasps and cries echoed from the horrified audience.

Witnessing so much gore had never made me happier. Dare I hope it would change the outcome of the spectators’ votes?

Idris glared at the demon’s bloody corpse, golden sparks flashing in his eyes. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate the unexpected disqualification of an approved champion. He spoke to someone over his shoulder, though there was nobody there. Muttered curses flew past his lips.