Just then, Raphael spoke again, his tone light and reassuring.
"Zora, don't feel pressured by the bet. This rivalry has nothing to do with you."
"It's simply an old grudge between Marcus and us." Raphael's star-bright eyes were gentle as flowing water. His voice, low and refined, carried an unmistakable note of reassurance.
Zora nodded lightly. "I understand."
This competition was, at its core, a matter between Alaric Von Seraph and Marcus. Her agreement to participate was, in truth, a gesture of respect toward Alaric Von Seraph.
Win or lose, it should not have concerned her.
And yet—
She had never liked losing.
"Stupid woman," Alaric Von Seraph said indifferently, his gaze fixed straight ahead. "If we lose, you just admit you're a stupid woman."
The tone was flat, almost careless. If not for the words themselves, one might have thought he was merely stating a fact.
Rude to the bone.
Every movement, every word of his carried an arrogance that seeped from his very marrow.
