I'm tied to a giant bullseye.
Barefoot. Arms stretched. Sawdust under my feet. It itches. A lot. Which wouldn't be an issue if I weren't tied up like a sacrificial ham at a barbarian feast.
And of course, that stupid bastard is grinning.
Sir Odran, resplendent in sun-gilded armor and unbearable confidence, takes two steps back and rolls his shoulders. The crowd murmurs. Somewhere, a drum beats. Somewhere else, a lady gasps.
I clear my throat. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
He glances at me. Winks. "Don't you trust me?"
"I don't trust you with my laundry," I hiss. "You shrank my tunic!"
Odran shrugs with maddening nonchalance. "Still looked good."
He lifts the first knife.
Oh gods.
I squirm, the ropes chafe. Sawdust clings to my ankles like guilt. He takes a moment to aim—like he's deciding which of my limbs is least essential.
Then—
Whhhfft. A silver blur. The blade lands with a thunk, quivering an inch from my ribs.
The audience gasps.
Then cheers erupt like firecrackers. Coins rain into the collection bowl. Children scream with delight. Someone shouts, "Miss the next one! Show some skin!"
Odran grins wider. Bastard's enjoying this.
I breathe through my nose. Calm. Serene. Murderous.
He lifts another knife.
I close my eyes. "When I haunt you," I murmur, "I'll rattle chains just to ruin your erections."
"Worth it," he says—and throws.
The next knife lands smack between my legs.
Like—right there. Between the thighs. An inch lower and we're renaming this show The Unmaking of Saya.
I freeze. Hiss between my teeth. "You did that on purpose."
Odran doesn't deny it. Just flashes that sun-kissed grin like a bloody painting come to life. The crowd howls with glee. Coins are flying. Someone's definitely started a chant.
Another knife flies.
Thunk.
Right next to my right butt cheek. I flinch. "Fuck you, Ogden!"
"Language," he chides sweetly, winding up again.
And then—
Shlick.
One knife, clean and arrogant, slices the strap at my left shoulder. The fabric slithers down like a traitor, baring one breast to the roar of the audience. I swear the sawdust blushes.
My voice drops. Low. Furious. "Ogden. Untie me. This. Minute."
But no. Theatrical bastard steps back. Makes a show of spinning the last blade. Crowd's eating out of his palm. I'm going to murder him. I'm going to murder him with his own sword, while he's still wearing it.
Thunk.
The last knife snaps the rope at my wrist.
Oh.
Big mistake.
I don't hesitate. Hand free, I yank hard, twist, tear—snap the other ropes loose with the practiced fury of a woman who's been tied up one too many times in her goddamn life.
The bullseye tips. I launch.
Ogden yelps. "Oh shit—"
Too late.
I crash into him like vengeance with boobs, knocking us both flat. The knives scatter. His smile dies.
I straddle him in front of a thunderstruck crowd, bare breast bouncing, hair wild, breathing fire.
I grin down at him sweetly. "Now it's my turn."
And the crowd loses its mind.
Much later.
I'm sitting on the floor of a rickety dressing tent behind the arena, legs sprawled, hair a bird's nest of shame, sweat, and sawdust. One boob's still out—I don't even bother tucking it in. The crowd already got their peek. Let 'em remember it fondly.
I'm counting coins.
Sticky with beer. Smelling of armpits and excitement. But oh, gods above, there's a lot of them.
Ogden flops down beside me, still grinning like a smug hound who humped the roast. "See? Why are you complaining? That's a lot of silver."
I snatch a coin and throw it at his head. He dodges.
"Because," I growl, "you stabbed knives at my coochie."
He raises a finger. "Near your coochie."
Another coin bounces off his pauldron. "You exposed my tit!"
"That tit made us at least twelve silver on its own," he says proudly.
"Fuck you, Ogden," I mutter, grabbing another handful of coins. "I should've stayed in the swamp with the nymphs. At least they didn't throw sharp objects at my genitals."
He leans back on his elbows, watching me count. "You were amazing though. The fury. The rage. The launch."
I stop. Glare. "I'm still going to kill you."
He shrugs. "Not before we spend this coin."
I mutter a curse so old and filthy it probably woke a dead god somewhere.
Still.
My hand keeps counting.
Because he's right.
Stupid, sexy, infuriating bastard.