Page 210 of Nine-Tenths

"Forfeited to the winner, sir," they say.

Horror slams into my chest. "No," I gasp, whipping back around in time to see Simcoe look up at me, that bloody leer back in place. "That's barbaric—"

Dav catches Simcoe looking and lets out another furious roar. Too busy gloating, Simcoe is caught off guard when Dav charges,a whirlwind of teeth and claws. I've never, not once in the time since we've known each other, in theyearssince he sat in the café and watched me,not-creepily, seen Dav like this.

This?

This is the trained soldier.

Around the room, the sounds and the smells of the fight seems to be getting every dragon worked up. Beside me, the guard is panting harshly through their nose, scales sprouting out from the side of their face.

Every dragon's eyesburnas they lean forward. They're all waiting for something. Something brutal. Something bloody. Something final.

Not to Dav. Please.

Simcoe and Dav lunge apart and clash together again, and again.

Dav isn't the only one bleeding now. The stone floor of the pit grows slick with ichor and torn scales. The next time they separate, both dragons take a moment to breathe. Dav stalks back and forth, licking gore from his fangs, tail lashing. His low rumble builds into a ripping snarl and subsides again.

Every pore of my skin tightens, hair literally standing on end. And yeah, okay, watching Dav fight for me is getting me horny, not gonna lie. Dav stalks around to the far side of the pit and lifts his snout in my direction. His pupils blow wide and, yeah, okay, fine, fuck.

Sure, let the whole room know how bad I want to bone you right now, why don't you.

My fucking competence kink, I swear.

While Dav wriggles and shivers, agitated and ready to end the fight, Simcoe is panting hard, several gashes torn in his hide and one of his wings dangling the wrong way. He's leaning against the wall of the pit, one of his forelegs twisted, but a curling sneer pulling at his mouth.

"So easily distracted," Simcoe growls. "You've always been lead by your prick, you witless—"

The rest of Simcoe's insult is drowned out by the crackling roar of Dav spitting fire. It's not like the wide, orange flames he's been huffing up until now. The fire is so intense that it's yellow-white, a thin stream aimed at the side of Simcoe's ruined face. It'sfocused, it's…

It's the method of fire-spitting he'd developed to roast coffee beans.

Simcoe lets out a high, hissing shrill of pain, and tips over backwards in his effort to scramble away. If I never see another melting eyeball in my life, it will be too soon. My boner is well and truly wilted.

Simcoe writhes up the wall, but the dragons along the benches shove him down. He screeches again when Dav pounces on his back, ripping at the roots of his wings.

"Mercy!" Simcoe shrieks through a ruined mouth.

"Mercy!" Dav echoes scornfully. "Like the mercy you showed me when I was grieving Charlie? The mercy you showed your father when he was ill? The mercy you showed to Mine Own, when he was scared and new to our world? Pah!"

"Mercy," Simcoe begs again, too far gone on pain to actually hear what Dav is saying. He wriggles and cries, trying to get out from under Dav, but Dav bears him to the ground, sinks the wicked talons on his hind legs into the meat of Simcoe's thigh.

Fire sparking, preparing to strike that final, fatal blow, Dav stops.

Stops.

And looks to me.

The room holds its breath.

Waiting for me to speak.

Waiting for me to pass sentence.

Waiting for me to sob, and beg mercy, and end it peaceably.

Well.