Her eyes locked with Alaric's.
He hadn't moved. The mask still concealed his face, but she didn't need to see it—she felt him. Concern radiated from him like a steady flame in the storm. He was urging her on in silence, his will shoring up her own.
For a heartbeat, Lara simply stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping warm from the cut at her temple, each breath sending agony lancing through her ribs. The roar of the crowd swelled around her, a storm crashing against the walls of the arena.
Her gaze flicked across the stands. Her father—rage and fear twisting his features—looked ready to vault the barrier and drag her out by force. She turned away quickly, finding her master. Jethru's frown cut deep; he had never seen her take such punishment, and worry pressed heavily into the lines of his face. Then Logan—barely conscious, one eye swollen shut—still managed to grin, raising a bruised thumb skyward.
