On the count of three, we thrust our crowns into the air, hoisting the severed heads of our enemies atop them. The crowd went ballistic for the showmanship, screaming at the top of their lungs, even without the added incentive of Isaac's siren magic. I endured the applause with gritted teeth, squinting against the steady patter of blood on my forehead. Even after winning, I wouldn't feel safe until the sands were far behind me, my feet rooted in solid ground.

While our opponents were better than expected, it hadn't taken long to decode the patterns in their movements. Isaac held them down as I swung my new scythe, which Bjorn insisted over the phone was a nice progression of the symbolism from the sheaf of grain. I'd almost crushed the phone when the spymaster started calling me Death's mistress.

A drop of red landed squat in my eye, making me flinch. Isaac tossed his midnight crown (and the ghastly head atop it) aside, as if the diamonds in the spires were utterly worthless. I lowered mine with slightly more dignity, shaking the head free and catching it with my foot, kicking hit across the field. The crowd went wild.

"Here," Isaac said, and I turned towards him. He was holding out a scrap of cloth he must have pulled from one of us pockets, or perhaps even ripped from the hem of his shirt. "Let me."

If it was anyone else, I would have laughed at the notion of letting somebody anywhere near my face. Instead I held still and allowed Isaac to gently dab the blood from the corner of my eye.

The cotton felt like sandpaper against my skin, but I endured his ministrations, grateful for the excuse to be close to him. A mopey aww spread through the crowd, and I stiffened when I realised his gesture was probably just for show.

"You know," Isaac said with a wry smirk. "... this is the closest we've ever gotten to being alone."

"I know." The reply was automatic, and I regretted it almost instantly. It gave too much away, but for some reason I couldn't stop myself from elaborating. "I've come to like these moments. They feel more honest."

"Oh?" he asked, feigning disinterest.

"The spell she put on you is awful, but it allows me to feel confident that my feelings are my own whenever we step into the arena. Like I can recalibrate my judgement."

He froze. "The spell works everywhere, Piper."

"What? But I thought..."

"And I've only ever worked my magic on you once, at that concert," he added, the words clipped by frustration. "And only because you pulled out those earbuds of your own volition, despite my every warning to keep them in. I wouldn't dream of trying to manipulate your feelings in any capacity."

"What about in the arena?" I blurted out, thinking of the frustrating compulsion to protect him against all logic and self-preservation. "Or during our first match?"

"Not even then," he said stiffly, dabbing a scratch at my temple. "I only worked the crowd."

"I'm sorry," I said, reeling over the implications. "I didn't realise."

He sighed, the bandage coming to rest against my cheekbone. "If anyone owes an apology, it's me. For the other night. My behaviour was boorish at best."

"And at worst?" I asked breathily, tilting my chin up. A tremor ran through me that had nothing to do with our recent exertion, and everything to do with the marks on my neck. I saw his eyes flick to them, briefly, before meeting mine again, amethyst to emerald. Crystals sharp enough to cut.

Isaac grimaced as he felt the sting of mine. "Cowardly. I didn't ask him to paint you, but I should have gone to greater lengths to prevent it from happening at all. We're supposed to make those kinds of decisions as a team. I'm sorry."

"I appreciate the apology," I said, momentarily distracted by a low rumble underfoot.

"Best be off," he said ruefully. As if we were standing in a private bedroom complaining about facing the day, not on full display for thousands of screaming fans.

"This way," I said, brushing his shoulder as I marched towards the exit. I didn't want to be here when the sand sucked up the dead we'd left behind.

He took it a step further and slung an arm around my neck, pulling me in close."Mason told me you went to visit him," Isaac said, adopting a conversational tone. "He came back when you were on the phone with Bjorn."

"Oh?"

"And? Is it true?"

"What? That I'm not interested in him that way?" I trained my gaze on the open portcullis, focusing on keeping my gait steady. He didn't correct me, so I rolled my eyes. "Yes. I have my sights set on someone else."

"You have been spending a lot of time on the phone lately," Isaac jabbed, and yet I could hear in his voice that he was the one who felt wounded.

As if his arm wasn't around me. As if he hadn't pinned me to the concrete only an hour ago, draining my blood in a more intimate embrace than any kiss I'd ever known.

As if I hadn't nearly swallowed his in turn and sealed a damn mate-bond for life.

Idiot, I thought with a scowl, refusing to spell it out for him. If anyone deserved an explanation, it was me. He was doing something to my mind and emotions and body, and yet he expected me to believe it had nothing to do with magic? That the pull I felt towards him was completely organic?

"What are you getting at, Isaac?"

"I was actually asking if you meant it when you said you wanted to stay. To make a home with us."

"I did," I said warily. "I do."

"I'd like that," Isaac said quietly, as we passed under the arch and into artificial night.

A constellation of battle mages awaited, linked once again by Corinne Cross. "This way," she said, a glimmer of amusement in her voice as she turned. We had no choice but to follow, and I imagined ripping out every one of her curls as we climbed up the stairs. I'd almost gotten halfway through her scalp when we reached the VIP balcony and the daydream was shattered by a piercing squeal of delight.

I couldn't pin it to one person; there were too many scrambling to their feet, cooing as they reached out to run their hands over our bodies like we were fine fabrics in a dress store. Isaac's face went blank again and I snarled, pulling a knife on a woman who got a little too close for my liking. She laughed like I'd offered up a sparkling trinket instead, smiling with all of her teeth — fangs included.

The Golden One refused to stand; it would afford us too much respect. Instead she lounged, flanked by two burly men. One emanated a wintry cold, with black hair and beetle eyes that had stared back at me from a wanted poster for months, while the other...

It was all I could do not to blurt out his name. Those vibrant blue eyes were unmistakable beneath a rather unimaginative wolf-mask, but what on earth was Jerome Blanc doing here?

"I told you they were fighting fit," the heir to the Paris Pack said, summoning a haughty air that was alarmingly convincing. "I wouldn't stake my coin on any less."

"Their movements were sloppy," Wardon rebutted, curling his lip and exposing a black bit of gum. He was the only one present who wasn't wearing a mask. "It's only a matter of time before somebody capitalises on one of their many mistakes."

Bickering ensued. The Golden One watched with unabashed amusement, biting her knuckles and giggling in parts.

Warden scoffed at Jerome's claims. "You were a gladiator for years, boy. I was a gladiator for centuries. Do you not recall what happened the last time we tested each other's mettle?"

Jerome made a derisive noise, but I noticed the sweat glistening on the tan column of his throat. "Do you truly think you can improve their form?"

"I can. And I will, for the right price."

Jerome rolled his eyes. "And what might that be?"

The haggling started in earnest, then, as each man threw out increasingly stupid numbers that I struggled to comprehend the worth of.

"That's a lot of coffees," I muttered under my breath.

Isaac jolted out of his stupor, snorting as the joke took him by surprise. "Decaf, too. With alternative milk."

I stepped closer. My fingers found his, twining through them behind our backs. It was foolish, when I should have held myself ready for violence at a moment's notice, but I rather liked the sharp disapproval in my mother's eyes. And I loved that my mind was blissfully silent in spite of it. Not one drop of her selfish, poisonous thoughts dared to disturb my calm.

"Fine," Jerome ground out at last. "You have a deal, Wardon, but I expect quick results."

"You will have them," the City Warden boomed, clasping Jerome's hand. I thought I saw the aristocratic werewolf flinch.

"And you," Jerome snapped, addressing me directly for the first time. "I may be your lanista, but you have a long way to go to earn your freedom. Make me some money, hmm?"

I forced myself to nod instead of laugh. I'd seen Jerome fret over a stain in his shirt; it was near impossible to believe this hard-ass act.

"When can we expect to fight again?" I asked the group.

The Golden One took it upon herself to answer. "A week's time. I look forward to seeing your improvements."

I met her gaze, holding it a beat too long. Static charged the air as her magic riled up in response., and I forced myself I looked down, doing my best to look chagrined. It was hard when I was imagining what it would feel like to rip out her throat with my blunt, human teeth.

Wardon evidently wanted to oversee the extraction of his son. Perhaps he meant it when he said he wanted to train us; perhaps it was a ruse so he could find our base of operations and hold it over our heads. Either way, Jerome had sold us out and the Golden One was looking at Isaac the way a magpie eyes a shiny scrap of foil, so I turned on my heel, dragging him down the stairs. To hell with protocol; we had more to lose by lingering in their poisonous company. A nest of vipers, the lot of them.

I hoped Jerome knew what he was getting into. Only a fool wouldn't recognise him, even with the mask.

Wardon's shadow swallowed ours all the way down.