Baculum sword in hand, the Prince scales the dragon’s back, the beast howling and flailing beneath him. I watch the play of muscle on Lincoln’s chest and legs as he climbs up the dragon’s body. My skin flushes with desire and heat. Damn, that’s one gorgeous man, even if he is a creep sometimes.

Cissy touches my shoulder. “Are you okay, Myla?”

“What do you mean?”

She points to the wooden fence. I’ve gripped it so hard, there’s now a crack in the wood. I loosen my grip and shrug. “Yeah, I’m fine. That’s just a really cool demon.”

“You and demons.” Cissy sniffs. “Well, be careful with that fence. It doesn’t look too sturdy.”

“Sure.” My gaze sweeps the crowd. Queen Octavia sits in the front row of the largest pavilion, her mismatched eyes fixed on me. I shiver and return my focus to the fighting grounds. The Prince still rides the dragon’s back as the beast twists and rears.

“Nat!” Lincoln waves to a sturdy thrax at the sidelines. “Toss me a muzzle!”

The man throws at Lincoln what looks like a thick leather net. The Prince slips it over the dragon’s mouth and pulls on the attached leash. The animal quiets. Shaking his head from side to side, Lincoln slides off the dragon’s back, the fire-sword still firmly in his grip.

A cry rises up from the pavilions. “Kill! Kill!”

Lincoln steps around the dragon, checking its jaw and hind legs. He raises one hand; the crowd goes quiet. “Nat, come here!”

The barrel-chested man jogs onto the tournament green. Sturdy and fit, he wears black body armor like Lincoln’s.

The Prince nods his head to the dragon. “Nat, how old do you say this beast is?”

Squinting, I take a closer look at the dragon’s body as well. He’s right. That dragon’s way too young for tournament fighting. No true warrior takes on anything but a fully-grown opponent who’s in attack mode. A lesson the Earl of Acca should learn, pronto. I tilt my head to one side. It takes a lot of control to stop in the middle of a battle. I almost hate to admit it, but I’m impressed.

I return my attention to the fighting grounds, where Nat checks the creature’s teeth. “The beast is four, maybe five years old, My Prince. Still a pup.”

Lincoln pats the beast’s hindquarters. “What would you say about these marks?”

Nat whistles through his teeth. “Stinging nettle, very painful. Would have driven the poor beast wild.”

Stinging nettle? That’s cruel stuff. Even some demon communities forbid it.