Page 189 of The Devil May Care

“Drink,” the attendant says with a smile so soft I could fold myself into it. “It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

I’ve earned it. The words curl up inside me, warm and self-satisfied. For the first time since stepping into the Rite, no one’s telling me I don’t belong. No one’s looking at me like I’m the wrong species in the wrong place. Another glance at Varo. He’s still seated two seats down, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the far wall. His cup is untouched. I swirl mine once more, watching the liquid lap at the edges, then set it down, too.

The room is a dream of gold and white. Silks ripple from the ceiling, trays weigh heavy with foods I can’t name, every surface polished so well it glows. The scent of roasted meat and sugared fruit fills the air, and my stomach twists with want.

“Eat.” A different attendant is already setting a platter in front of me, the steam curling up like an invitation. I almost reach for it. Almost.

Varo still hasn’t moved.

The longer I sit here, the stranger the air feels. Heady, almost fizzy, like champagne gone to my head. My skin prickles, my heart beats slower, and some small voice inside me starts whispering things I’ve never thought about myself.Pretty. Worthy. Desirable. It’s unsettling, and I try to shake it off, but then another voice—warmer, smoother—slides in right after.You’ve survived more than they ever expected. Look at you. They should be kneeling.

I straighten in my seat before I realize I’m doing it.

One of the contenders, Caelthar, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual scowl, says something sharp to Lyra seated next to him. She throws a goblet at his face. Gold wine splashes over the table, and in seconds they’re both on their feet, shouting.

“Unworthy,” the man snarls. “You’re nothing here, Captain.”

Her answering laugh is sharp enough to cut glass. “Says the man who lost to the human in the second trial.” Andouch,Lyra.

The room erupts into goading shouts. Someone starts clapping. I watch, my fingers curling against my thighs.

Varo doesn’t turn his head, as if his friend, colleague, isn’t about to start trading blows. I sit back, fighting the urge to demand an explanation. He won't give one. Around us, the celebration goes on. Music swells from nowhere, sweet and curling in the air like smoke. The attendants keep refilling cups, pressing dishes into hands, murmuring praise. Every time they pass me, they say something. Every single one of them. As if they can’t walk by without feeding me another morsel of flattery. And gods help me, I like it.

I’m not falling for the compliments—at least, I don’t think so—but I catch them sliding in under my ribs and making me want to stay. Stay here, in the silk-draped warmth, where I’m not fighting for my life. Where the trials are over. Where I can just be wanted.

But Varo’s cup stays full. His plate untouched.

I glance again at the two contenders still arguing, Rhovan and Malrik’s voices grow louder, movements sharper.Pride has teeth, I realize.And it’s chewing them up.I wrap the sheet tighter around me. My bare feet are cold against the marble floor. Someone leans in to set another dish in front of me — something glazed and golden, smelling like heaven. My stomach growls, but my mouth is dry.

“You deserve this,” they murmur. “All of it.”

Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. But the longer I sit here, the harder it is to tell the difference.

Varo shifts, the first movement I’ve seen from him since I sat down. He isn’t looking at me anymore, but the tension in his jaw is sharp enough to cut. Something presses against my mind, faint but steady. Not Umbral’s stillness. This is different, warm and sweet, but with a hook hidden under the honey.

I touch the edge of my cup again. And this time I don’t drink.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

KAY

Iset the cup down. The stem wobbles against the mirrored table, the last curl of wine catching the light like liquid garnet. My fingers don’t want to let go—my body remembers the sweetness, the warmth—but my head says no. The attendants notice immediately.

“You haven’t finished,” one purrs, their voice thick as honey. “You’ve earned this, Kay of the Emberbrand. No one deserves it more.”

The words are designed to sink in, low and rich, vibrating in my chest. I can almost believe them. Almost.

“I’m fine.” My voice is even. If I let any uncertainty show, they’ll pounce on it. Another leans closer, a feathered fan brushing my bare shoulder.

“You’ve survived so much. You’ve won. Let us take care of you now.”

There was a time—not so long ago—when the idea of being taken care of would have been the perfect trap. Not because I’d fall for it, but because I was sure I didn’t deserve it in the first place. Earth-Kay would have laughed, awkward and self-deprecating, making a joke about how I’m not the kind of person you put on a pedestal. That Kay lived in the shadow of never being enough.

This Kay? Well, I’m not nothing. I’ve bled and clawed and dragged myself through more than anyone has a right to expect. But I’m also notthis. Not someone to be worshipped and paraded like some trophy. I’m not worth more than any of the others in this room. Everyone here has fought for something. Everyone here has value.

The ballroom gleams around me, drowning in gold and crystal. Chandeliers drip with light. The air itself smells rich, like warm vanilla spiked with something sharper, cleaner. Mirrors line the walls, reflecting impossible depth, a hall that stretches far past what my eyes can track. It’s beautiful, and it’s wrong.

The memory stumbles into place like a half-finished puzzle: the archway, the heat of the Crimson arena, the Umbral trial spitting me out—stone beneath my feet—and then… nothing. A blink. A slip. And I was here. My gaze drags upward, tracing how the gilded balconies curve impossibly high above the marble floor. This room is too large to be real. Too perfect. Where did it all come from?