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broadswords.
    “Yeah. That’s Kraven. He works for Nightwing Security, so wherever they need him, he goes.”
    Sorcha fell in love with the guy the first night we stepped into a Morgon club. Well, fell in lust with him, anyway. Kraven stepped to the center of the arena.
    “What’s he doing with the swords?”
    Before Conn could answer, Kraven bellowed over the crowd.
    “The pledge of the Obsidian Games applies! Fight until one yields!”
    Kraven threw the first sword. It spun in the air and fell blade-first into the dirt floor at Paxon’s feet. He sent the second flying, landing in front of Braden. Giving a sharp nod to both Morgons, he beat his wings twice, stepped back out of the barred gate, and closed the door with a clang.
    “Wait a minute. Isn’t he going to referee or something?”
    “There is no referee in a blood match.”
    “But…what if one of them does something illegal?”
    “Ella, there is nothing illegal going on here. Not in the Pit.”
    “But what if neither of them surrenders? How long will it go on?”
    “It goes on until one yields or falls unconscious. Or worse. Those are the only rules.”
    Clenching the bars, I held my breath as Braden hefted his sword from the earth. He stalked across the Pit toward Paxon, who appeared relaxed. Too relaxed. Arms at his sides, he took one step forward and lightly took his sword in hand.
    Mirroring each other, they made a half-circle when Braden lunged, swinging the sword over his head. Paxon rebuffed the strike, metal clanking and sliding along steel edges. The whole time I watched them swivel around the ring, I marveled at how Paxon moved—with calm and purpose. His wings lifted him to avoid a blow, his body lithe and agile, daring his opponent to make even a scratch. And how I prayed not one mark would be made on that beautiful body.
    What had come over me? I had a boyfriend. Somehow, that made no difference whatsoever to my ogling eyes and my swift-beating heart.
    After long, agonizing minutes of swinging steel and near-misses, Paxon stood his ground, sword at his side.
    Braden circled, chest heaving. Feet apart, shoulders relaxed, back straight, only his eyes following his opponent, Paxon seemed more at ease than anyone in or around the arena. My nerves fractured. My knuckles drained white on the bars. Braden inhaled sharply and blew out a line of flame that would’ve burned Paxon’s face off if he hadn’t leapt into the air with the aid of his wings. He slammed a hard kick directly into the side of Braden’s skull as he came down. The big guy fell backward, crumbling to the ground before Paxon could land another.
    In another bout of swift moves, Braden attacked with ferocity. Paxon dodged with ease. Braden’s face contorted with fury, veins bulging at the temples as he launched himself full-force, swinging his sword high and wide toward Paxon’s head. But he wasn’t fast enough. Paxon stepped to the side. Braden’s sword missed and embedded in the dirt floor. His mistake cost him. Paxon sliced across his shoulder to the bone.
    “Oooh,” went the crowd.
    Not a superficial wound. It bled profusely down Braden’s bare chest and back. He might look relaxed, but Paxon wasn’t playing. Braden swung through the air again with more effort.
    Clank, clank, clank!
    They swung and circled, swords colliding over and over.
    Sweat beaded on Paxon’s brow and body, his jet-black hair, usually well-groomed and in its proper place, fell across his eyes. I feared for him. I begged the heavens to spare him any harm. And I barely knew him. I’d never been so transfixed, so lured, not even by Clayton.
    Clayton! I scanned behind me and found him hanging back with Corbin and Slade, watching from some elevated benches. Clayton had his arm around the shoulders of some Morgon chick with silver wings. He whispered in her ear, leaning in close and swaying in his seat. She removed his arm, then stood up and took a seat one bench below next to a group of Morgon girls.