Page 220 of The Devil May Care

I stare at him, bowl forgotten in my lap. “When—?”

“While you were off chatting with philosophical ghosts.” His voice is dry, teasing. But there’s an undercurrent of respect there too.

“You’re serious,” I whisper. “It’s down to us.”

“The others took the gift,” He shrugs. “You don’t seem thrilled.”

“I don’t know what I feel.”

“That tracks,” he mutters, then gestures toward the open stone bench beside him. “Come sit. Pretend we’re friends before one of us tries to murder the other in a week.”

I roll my eyes but obey, settling beside him. He smells like ash and leather and something citrusy that reminds me of the training grounds. Of Caz. For a minute, we sit in silence.

“What are you going to do if you win?” I ask, voice quiet.

He glances at me, surprised. “Heavy question.”

“You’ve had longer to think about it than I have.”

Varo shrugs, but there’s tension in his shoulders. “Same thing I’ve always wanted. Fix what’s broken.”

“And if you lose?”

His smirk turns sharp. “Are you offering to crown me in secret?”

I elbow him. “You wish.” But yes, actually, that thought had crossed my mind.

“Not really,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I think… if you win, Kay, I could live with that.” The words knock something loose in my chest. I don’t know what to say. So I just look at him. He meets my gaze, and the sharpness fades into something warmer. Older. “You’ve changed things. For all of us.”

“You sure about that?”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“I’m not trying to win.” I say, dropping my spoon into my bowl and pushing both onto the wooden table top.

He cocks a brow. “No?”

“I just want to survive.” I shrug. “Make it out with all my pieces intact. The throne? That’s your mess. Not mine.”

He leans back, studying me. “You’re really not after it?”

“Nope.” I meet his eyes. “You’ve got better reasons than I ever will.”

His lips twitch. “Damn right I do.”

We fall into an easy silence, the kind that tastes earned.

Then Varo breaks it. “Where’s the little beast?”

“George?” I blink.

He shrugs, casual. “Haven’t seen him since before the trial. Thought maybe you lost him again.”

My stomach twists—but before I can panic, a familiar yowl echoesfrom the hallway. George trots in like he owns the place, tail high, eyes gleaming. He makes a beeline for Varo, leaps onto the bench beside him, and head butts his arm with the force of a small war hammer. Varo doesn’t even flinch.

“Oh my god,” I mutter. “You’ve been watching him for me, haven’t you?”

He shrugs again, too smug. “He needed company. I figured if I die, someone should remember me fondly.” George sprawls across his lap like a decadent emperor. Varo strokes his head once, then eyes me sidelong. “I assume he comes with you if you win?”