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  If the massive warrior was worried, Brynn could see no sign of it. He simply stood there, sizing up his new opponent.

  Looking for weaknesses? Brynn wondered, remembering what the people in the next box had been saying. But what weaknesses could such a terrifying beast have? It was huge—its head coming up to the Kindred’s shoulder. If it stood on its hind legs it would be more than twice as tall as him. What chance did he have against those razor sharp fangs and curving claws?

  The two circled each other and Brynn wondered if the Kindred was waiting for the beast to spring. But then, to her astonishment, he struck first. Rushing forward, he slid the blade of one sword between the raised scales, just at the beast’s right shoulder.

  The zanther roared in anger and swiped at the warrior, who danced back easily, out of the way of its massive claws. It ran at him but plainly it was hurt—somehow the Kindred had found the one weak spot in its armored hide and had exploited it. He led it around the Arena, moving with grace and ease despite his size and never displaying any fear. He might almost have been a male playing with a canis—except the zanther was about twenty times as large and deadly as those common household pets were.

  Finally, the beast had had enough of his teasing. Roaring angrily, it snapped at him and this time the Kindred wasn’t quite fast enough. The long teeth got his hand—his fingers at least—and when he managed to pull away his hand was bloody.

  “He’s lost a finger—maybe two!” the lady in the other box exclaimed.

  “No matter,” her companion answered. “He can grow them back. Watch—he’ll keep on fighting. It doesn’t even bother him.”

  Brynn didn’t see how losing a finger couldn’t matter but just then the confrontation in the Area came to a climax.

  The zanther growled and gathered itself for a leap. Just as it did, the massive Kindred appeared to stumble and go down on one knee. Seeing its opportunity, the zanther sprang. The warrior crouched low and, as the beast passed over his head, he slid one curving blade into its heart.

  The zanther collapsed in mid-spring, its massive weight sagging, forcing the warrior to the ground beneath it.

  It will crush him! Brynn thought, her heart in her throat. The weight of it—it’s too heavy!

  She became aware that she was leaning forward, gripping the edge of the Royal Box with both hands in tense anticipation. The silver filigree crown fell off her head and landed in the bloody sand, causing the people around her to gasp. But even though she knew she must be making a spectacle, she found she couldn’t stop.

  Is he all right? Where is he? Where—

  Suddenly the zanther’s carcass heaved as though it was coming back to life. Brynn gave a little cry and clapped her hand to her mouth. But it was only the Kindred—he rolled out from beneath the huge animal and came to stand before the Royal Box, not even breathing hard.

  Leaning forward as she was, Brynn was no more than three feet from him. He was covered in blood—both the red of his humanoid opponents and the black ichor of the zanther. Even his mask was streaked with it.

  His mask…how she longed to see under it! And yet, she dreaded it too.

  “Your Majesties…” He bowed low, his rich, deep voice somewhat muffled by the bronze.

  “Well done.” The King nodded gravely. “You never disappoint, Varin. And now your true job begins.”

  “Indeed—I have trained all my life for it. I have not lived until now,” the warrior rumbled.

  Again, Brynn got the feeling he was looking at her as he spoke. She wished she could be certain. Even more, she wished she could sit back but somehow she felt frozen to the spot, staring down at the massive warrior just a few feet below her.

  “For heaven's sakes, have him lift the mask,” the Queen snapped waspishly. “Who can understand him otherwise?”

  “My apologies, your Majesty.” The Kindred sheathed his swords and one blood-stained hand came up to raise the bronze plate that had shielded his face during battle.

  As his face was revealed, Brynn felt something break loose inside her. A memory that had floated in the back of her subconscious all of her life, like a boat on black waters, suddenly snapped its moorings and rushed into the forefront of her mind.

  “You,” she whispered, for the face revealed when the mask was removed was well known to her—as well known as her own face in the viewer.

  Dark, heavy brows were drawn low over light bronze eyes ringed in black. The straight nose, the sensual mouth, even the small cleft in his strong chin—all these features were known to her.

  I dreamed of him, Brynn realized. I’ve dreamed of him every single night. And every day’s waking had erased him, though sometimes she tried to hold the dream. But it was like trying to hold a sunbeam. Until now, she had never seen the massive male outside her sleep. She could scarcely believe it.

  “You’re real,” Brynn whispered to him. “You’re really real.”

  “You’re just as I saw you, Princess.” His deep voice was a soft rumble that seemed to go straight through her body and vibrate her very soul.

  The intensity of his bronze stare was too much. Brynn wanted to sit back but somehow she couldn’t. She clutched at the railing of the Royal Box, feeling cold sweat break out on her brow. The too-tight dress was pinching her, cutting off her air. She couldn’t breathe…couldn’t breathe.

  The dream who was not a dream stepped forward, a worried look on his face.

  “Princess?” he said. “Mistress? Are you well?”

  “I…I…” Brynn’s head swam dizzily. She hadn’t eaten since that morning—just a bit of dry crunda toast—it was all she’d been able to choke down, excited as she was for her Presentation Day at Court. Now she wished she’d tried to eat more. Not that she was hungry—she felt too dizzy and sick for that. She felt herself tilting forward.

  “Honestly Brynnalla, whatever are you doing?” her Lady-mother the Queen demanded from behind her. But her shrill, nasal voice seemed very far away from the black hole Brynn was falling into.

  She swayed dizzily, her fingers losing their grip on the railing.

  Goddess, she thought. He’s really real—not a dream at all. Think I’m going to f—

  And then everything went gray and she toppled over the side of the Royal Box.

  Chapter Four

  Varin had sworn to himself he would never touch her.

  How could he? He was her sworn protector, nothing more. Not her lover or even her friend—just a guard to stand by and make sure of her safety. Really, it would be better not to even talk to her. Or so he had told himself a thousand times after waking from a dream of her or catching a glimpse of her in a vision.

  It wasn’t just his obedience band that stopped him from trying to get close to her—though he well knew it would shock him if he ever tried to lay a hand on her bare skin. It was the knowledge that the Princess was so far above him. As far as the lovely, pale blue moon that rose in Galen Prime’s sky each night. She wasn’t his to have and the pain of that was best born silently and in solitude.

  But when she came into the Royal Box and he saw her in person for the first time in eighteen years, his heart ached fiercely, despite his resolutions. He was watching from the interior of the Arena—the staging area where those about to fight and die for the King’s pleasure waited their turn. Even from that distance he recognized her, though seeing her in person was much different from his visions.

  She had on a tight red dress that seemed to make her uncomfortable. It emphasized her slim, lovely figure, her small, perfect breasts pressing up and out of the top of the bodice which buttoned tightly around her rib cage. Her hair was unlike the poofy frizz of curls the other court ladies favored. It was long and sleek and silky—the color of midnight. Immediately Varin’s fingers itched to stroke that soft waterfall of black, to feel the long strands whisper over his chest as she laid her head against him.

  When he realized what he was thinking, he had curled his hands into fists and frowned.