Feyd’s pulse pounded, not from fear, but from the thrill of the fight. This was what he was made for—combat, the stage, the kill. Yet, beneath the roar of the crowd, he was aware of her eyes on him. His wife. Watching. Waiting. Expecting victory.

Paul was fast, too fast, moving with an ease that irritated Feyd more than he cared to admit. Does he not fear me? He smirked, masking the flicker of frustration as he lunged, his blade a blur of silver. A feint. A strike. A killing blow—

Nothing. Paul was already gone, his counterattack swift and precise. Feyd felt the sting before he saw the blood, a shallow cut across his ribs. He barely spared it a glance, but the message was clear. He’s toying with me.

Feyd let out a slow breath, tilting his head, his smirk widening. His fingers ghosted over the wound, coming away slick with red. He smeared it across his fingers before licking it away, his black eyes locked onto Paul’s.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he murmured, voice dripping with challenge.

A flicker of movement in the crowd caught his attention—his wife, lips slightly parted, her body rigid with tension. He couldn’t tell if it was worry or excitement in her gaze. Maybe both.

Good. Let her see. Let her watch as he proved himself, not just as a fighter, but as a victor.