Instead of that empty blackness, a microcosm of jungle and forest, swamps, lakes, rivers, trees, and rocks sprawls below us. In the very center is a mountain with a single red rose suspended over its peak spinning slowly in the air.

I try to swallow, but my mouth feels like it’s coated in wool. Panicked sweat breaks out over my forehead.

“You’ll find a few surprises along the way,” Herric continues. “But I’m sure you’ll have no problem dealing with them. Or maybe you will. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?”

I harden my jaw and push myself up into a fighting stance, my hands curled in tight fists.

Whatever is about to happen, I must get to Nadir.

My life is safe for now, but Herric will do everything to kill him.

“There are no rules in the arena. Do whatever you need to stay alive. Good luck, little queen.”

I’m coming for you, I say to Nadir. I can feel him across the distance separating us. I almost lost him once, and I swore I would never let anyone take him again.

I love you, Lor.

My throat knots at the raw finality in his voice.

No, this isn’t the end. Tell me that again when we get the fuck out of here.

Over the distance, our gazes meet, and I see him fall to a knee with his hand pressed over his chest. Then let’s fucking do this, Heart Queen.

“Ready!” Herric shouts as I turn to look at him.

He drops his arms, and our platforms slowly start to lower when a disembodied voice floats over our heads, backdropped by thousands of breathless, vicious cheers.

I make a promise to myself.

I don’t care what it takes.

This will not be goodbye.

3 . . .

2 . . .

1 . . .

Go!

CHAPTER 65

For several seconds, the platform descends at a steady pace until a horn blasts through the white noise of the spectators, and it plummets. I scream, airborne for several long, stomach-lifting moments before I plunge into the prickly heart of a thick bush.

At first, I’m grateful it broke my fall, but then I realize it’s a tangle of thorns. They cling to my hair and my clothes, pulling, scraping, and tearing as I struggle to extricate myself. I curse a blue streak, not only for the awkwardness of this position but for the fact that I’ve once again been forced into a contest that I never entered.

What kind of sick poetic justice is this?

I continue to struggle as warm blood trickles down my cheek and my hands sting from scratches. Finally, I heave myself over and roll off the bush before collapsing in a heap on the ground, finding a patch of short grass to cushion my landing.

Lor. Where are you?

I fell into a fucking nest of thorns.

Okay, well, I don’t want to alarm you . . .