of his throat, refusing to roll off his tongue. Lunging forward, he kissed her hard and shoved her hand back onto his cock.
The room was suddenly sweltering. Leila breathed heavily, her hand fixed to his cock like a dog with a bone, and a half-second later she was rubbing, turning his thoughts from feverish to filthy. Under the pants. Go under the pants, but he kept quiet, squeezing tight at her thighs. Her fingers snaked up to his waistband, and a surge of excitement burst through him. Oh God, she’s doing it.
She abruptly pulled away. “Tobias, wait.”
Tobias shook himself, his breathing still rampant. “What’s wrong?”
Leila went quiet, and her eyes shot toward the door. “Someone’s coming.”
They bolted upright, racing to straighten their clothes. As footsteps sounded outside the door, Leila flicked Tobias hard on the temple, sending him cringing.
“Ow—”
Flynn barged into the room, and Leila went to work examining Tobias’s head. “I don’t know what you’re moaning about, you look perfectly fine to me.” She turned to Flynn. “Oh, hello. Don’t mind me, I was just leaving.”
She scurried to the door, flashing Tobias a knowing smile before disappearing from his chamber.
Tobias turned to Flynn, resisting the urge to scowl. “What is it?”
Flynn didn’t answer, his brow twisted and gaze far away.
“Flynn?”
He flinched. “We’ve been summoned to the bathhouse.”
“What for?”
“There’s a challenge. We’re to look presentable.”
Tobias’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.”
Without a word, Flynn darted from the room, not bothering to wait for him. Tobias followed soon after, venturing to the bathhouse where servants scrubbed the paint from his body, turning the water into rainbows. Properly groomed, he dragged his feet on his journey to the challenge, trying to predict what was to come: archery, hidden roses, another atrocity, another murder.
Guards led the men through the palace, navigating a wing Tobias hadn’t yet explored. An antiquated stone floor, flaking plaster walls—nothing about this place appeared regal or stately, and their destination proved no different. A dark, dismal room lined in mahogany pews opened up around them, each bench spilling with palace hands—along with Pippa, Delphi, Leila, and Cosima, seated among the others like simple staff.
Dread pooled in Tobias’s gut. At the front of the room were a series of steps leading up to a lavish throne, its backing lined in golden spikes like the rays of the sun—a throne for The Savior, except sitting in it was the Sovereign.
Wembleton and his gaggle of guards marched into the space, filing up to the Sovereign’s perch. The guards situated themselves into a line, and Wembleton took root at the Sovereign’s side, looking more drawn with each passing day. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the ninth challenge of the Sovereign’s Tournament. This is the Sovereign’s Choice.”
The Sovereign’s Choice. Tobias had forgotten about it amid the hysteria, but now it was here, and his heart beat faster, his body swimming with anticipation.
“None of you will be competing today,” Wembleton said. “This is a challenge unlike the others. In fact, it began the moment you entered this tournament—the challenge of impressing our esteemed Sovereign.”
Flynn sucked in an anxious breath, though Tobias didn’t share his fear. If there was one man who had failed to impress the Sovereign, it was him.
“Dragon, Shepherd, Prince, Artist, Intellect”—Wembleton nodded at the men in question—“as the final five men of this tournament, your laurels will be regarded with honor for all eternity. But only four of you will remain in the palace to compete for The Savior’s affection. One of you will be released today, the man who is least fit to wear the crown as deemed by the Sovereign himself.”
Tobias’s eyes flitted to Leila. I’m leaving this tournament. And he was taking her with him.
“Per tradition, The Savior is not without say in the Sovereign’s Choice. It is within Her power to select one man to be free from release.” Wembleton scanned the men. “The man exempt from the Sovereign’s Choice as dictated by our one true Savior…” His eyes stopped at Tobias.
“Is the Artist.”
A battering ram slammed into Tobias’s stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.
How is this possible?
“And now for the decision.” Wembleton raised his chin. “The second man to be honorably released from the Sovereign’s Tournament, the man least fit to wear the crown, is the Intellect.”
Tobias’s hands locked into fists. I’m fucking exempt. He stared at Leila—the woman slipping from his fingers—and his resolve burned through him, all but extinguished.
I’m leaving this tournament, and I’m leaving now.
“Intellect, you will be escorted off the fortress grounds immediately. With that