I’ve never heard Sharkie call me anything but ‘slave.’ How he’ll hate answering that question. The emcee’s voice comes out a low rumble. “It’s Myla Lewis, your Majesty.” Yup, he hated that, alright.

“You fought bravely, Myla Lewis.” Up close, I can see that the King’s face is pale with lightly veined skin and deep laugh-lines around his mismatched eyes. “Part of our mission here is to build better relationships with quasis such as you. Please accept this sword in congratulation.” He holds up a long silver sword with a red pummel, then pauses, turning to Lincoln. “Perhaps you should give her this, my son. I believe I saw the two of you talking at the ball.”

Hell, no. Don’t let that asshat give me the sword. I raise my hand quickly. “We don’t know each other.”

Lincoln takes the weapon firmly in his hands. “Let me think.” His gaze slowly runs over my body. Suddenly, I’m very aware that my dragon-scale cat suit leaves zero to the male imagination. Even worse, it’s really-really cold in the Arena today. Great.

The Prince sets the point of the sword onto the Arena floor, his hands rest atop the red pummel. “I believe we had one conversation. About pets, as I recall?” His heavy-lidded eyes lock onto mine, one slate-blue and one wheat-brown. A challenge lurks behind them.

My inner demon sparks to life, not with anger this time, but with something just as powerful. My tail strokes my shoulder, as if warning me to stop. I slap the arrowhead end and lean in closer to Lincoln.

I’m always up for a challenge.

I plaster on a fake smile. “Now, I remember the conversation. You were a true Prince.” I turn to the King. “I am grateful for the sword, your Highness.”

Lincoln swings the weapon until the pummel rests in his right hand, the deadly end against his left palm. The Prince and I start a kind of staring match in the middle of the Arena floor. I pass the time picturing ways to knock him to the ground.

King Connor clears his throat. “Perhaps if you said a few words, son.”

Lincoln’s upper lip curls. “Sure, father.” He takes a deep breath. “This quasi girl–”

“Myla. My name’s Myla.” Anger hums through every bone in my body.

The Prince’s jaw falls open a moment. I don’t think he gets corrected very often. I glance at the King; laughter dances in his mismatched eyes.

“Yes, Myla.” If Lincoln could spit my name out, I think he would have. “You showed some basic ability in the match this morning, certainly enough to warrant an honorary sword. Of course, if you fought a true demon hunter then–”

“Just name the time and place, buddy.” My body buzzes with rage.