The Strange Groom's Cursed Bride
Chapter 90: The paired race

Chapter 90: The paired race

Linda, ever quick to recover, forced a saccharine smile as she hurried towards the track, her voice high and forced. "Oh, I didn’t know you were interested in this kind of thing, Mr. Wildfire! Aurora might be... a little rusty." She tried to subtly imply Alice’s supposed fragility, her lack of physical prowess, hoping to interject herself. "Maybe I could step in for her? I’m quite... fast."

Dawin’s gaze, cool and unwavering, fixed on Linda. His dark eyes held no warmth, no flicker of amusement. "No need," he said, his voice quiet but firm, brooking no argument. He then turned to Alice, a subtle tilt of his head, a silent query. "Shall we?"

Alice’s mouth opened. Then closed. She wanted to say no. She wanted to walk away. To vanish from this suffocating spotlight. But eyes were everywhere. Everyone had turned to look, their hushed whispers reaching even the Matriarch, who watched with unblinking intensity.

And on the upper terrace—

Hades, who had been observing from a distance, lounging with an air of detached arrogance, suddenly straightened in his chair. The stillness of a man who’d just registered something he didn’t like, the barely perceptible shift of a predator whose territory had been encroached upon.

His dark eyes, previously unreadable, now zeroed in on the blue-vested pair on the track, a subtle tension tightening his jaw.

Another interesting ripple spread through the crowd. As Dawin moved towards Alice, preparing for the race, other important figures also shifted, their focus suddenly narrowed.

"Alright, partners, gather ’round!" a cheerful organizer announced, blissfully oblivious to the simmering undercurrents. "We’ll tie your legs together just above the ankles. Remember, the key is synchronization! Don’t break apart!"

Dawin positioned himself beside Alice. She was tiny beside him, her delicate frame almost swallowed by his imposing presence. As he reached down to adjust the strap that would bind their ankles, his arm accidentally brushed her injured forearm. Alice flinched, a small, involuntary recoil, a sharp intake of breath. The sensitive skin around the cut sent a jolt of pain.

He paused, his head tilting, his eyes searching her face with an unsettling concern. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice soft, almost too solicitous, his gaze unnervingly intense.

"Yes," Alice said, her voice clipped, barely a whisper. "Fine." She tried to pull her arm back, but he was already adjusting the tie.

"Don’t break apart," a volunteer announced loudly, perhaps sensing the tension. "If you do, your team is disqualified."

Dawin continued to adjust the strap. As his sleeve lifted, Alice’s gaze, almost unconsciously, noticed the faint, yellowish bruises on his knuckles.

"You don’t look like the type to fight," she commented, her voice flat, almost an observation to herself rather than a direct question to him. "Why is your hand bruised?" It wasn’t that she cared, not really. It was just a surprising, almost out-loud thought, the unexpected roughness of his hands clashing with his refined image.

Dawin finished securing the tie, then straightened, his eyes meeting hers. A ghost of a smile, strangely unsettling, played on his lips. "And you," he countered, his gaze dropping to her lip, "don’t look like the type to get into brawls. Why is your lip busted?" His tone was light, almost conversational, but there was an unnerving intensity in his eyes, a depth that made her uncomfortable.

Just then, the organizer gave the final instruction, his voice booming over the loudspeaker. "Partners, lock arms for balance!"

Dawin brazenly reached for her, his fingers lacing with hers, holding her hand firmly.

Alice flinched again, a stronger reaction this time. She tried to yank her hand free, but his hold was strong, unyielding, almost possessive. She looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes. He looked down at her, his gaze saying nothing, but then he arched his brow slightly, signaling to the other pairs beside them, who were already linked arm-in-arm. She looked around her and noticed the others also had their hands locked. Like it was part of the rules. _{f.(r)eewe/bnov\ll.com}

To say she was uncomfortable was an understatement. Aside from the sudden, undeniable intimacy of his touch, the possessiveness in his grip, that took her aback, she was concerned about him feeling her palm. It was rough. She didn’t know how Aurora’s hand felt but she knew it would be delicate.

But then, it registered to her how rough his hand was.

Unexpectedly so for someone of his status, almost as rough as her own from years of manual labor. The contrast to his polished exterior was jarring.

The entire exchange was happening just before the whistle, as they organized themselves, making it a public spectacle. Alice and Dawin stood there awkwardly, their joined hands a focal point for the entire event.

Everyone was literally watching, from the Matriarch under her pavilion, her face a mask of furious displeasure, to Hades across the field.

The whistle’s piercing shriek cut through the air, sending a jolt through Alice’s already frayed nerves.

"Ready..."

Alice stood stiffly beside Dawin at the starting line, their ankles bound, the combined heat rising from the sun and the intense stares making her sweat more than exertion ever could. She could feel every breath Dawin took, every slight twitch of his muscles beside her. She didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to feel anything at all, just wanted this bizarre, public spectacle to be over.

But the whispers wouldn’t stop. They buzzed around her like angry bees.

"She’s paired with him?"

"She must have bewitched him or something. Dawin never does these silly games."

"What about her husband? Isn’t he here somewhere? Why is she throwing herself at his brother?"

"What a whore."

"Set—!"

Alice bent slightly at the knee, bracing herself. So did Dawin, his body a solid, reassuring presence beside her.

The countdown started. "Three... two... one..."

The whistle blew.

And they took off.

The first few steps were jerky, uncoordinated. Alice tripped a little, bumped into Dawin, a fresh jolt of pain from her injured arm as it brushed his side. She caught herself, gritting her teeth. He adjusted quickly, his voice a low, steady cadence beside her, calling out softly, "Right. Left. Right. Left—"

Slowly, awkwardly at first, they found a rhythm. A strange, almost unnatural synchronization settled between them. Their bound legs moved in sync, arms pumping on the outer sides. It was strange, this unexpected teamwork with someone who made her skin crawl, but it worked.

Adrenaline, sharp and exhilarating, kicked in, dulling the aches and pains.

The crowd roared around them, a dizzying blur of faces and colors. Pairs were collapsing on the sidelines, others struggling to coordinate, collapsing into tangled heaps of limbs and laughter. But Alice and Dawin surged forward, a surprisingly efficient unit, like they had rehearsed this in another life.

Halfway across the track, they were ahead. Just by inches, but undeniably ahead.

Alice didn’t hear the whispers anymore. She didn’t feel the thousand eyes dissecting her every move. Only the wind on her face, the pounding of her heart, and the dry earth beneath her shoes. She was moving. She was winning.

Something unexpected bubbled up from inside her—a laugh, a breathless, surprised burst of disbelief. She smiled. Actually smiled, a wide, genuine curve of her lips, a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph cutting through the gloom.

Dawin glanced down at her just as they crossed the final marker, his expression softening, something warm and almost possessive in his eyes as he saw her uninhibited joy.

The crowd erupted.

Whistles blew. A cheer rang out, deafening in its intensity.

Blue team won.

They slowed to a stop, panting, legs still tied, the momentum carrying them a few feet past the finish line. Alice bent over, hands on her knees, gasping for air, her chest heaving. Dawin steadied her by the elbow, looking down at her with that unsettlingly warm expression.

He smiled, a true, open smile that made his features softer, less guarded.

She looked up, her hair half-wild, clinging to her damp face, her cheeks flushed, eyes lit by adrenaline and the sheer thrill of victory, and saw that smile reflected in his.

In the distance, the Matriarch, who had remained perfectly poised and upright this whole time, stood up. Her jaw was tight, her expression a mask of noble disapproval, her perfectly coiffed head held high. She gave a short, sharp nod to her attendant and walked away from the field without a word, each step a statement of icy condemnation.

Suzy, standing near one of the booth tents in her yellow vest, looked utterly confused, like thousands of thoughts were running through her mind.

Linda was frozen near the scoreboard, holding her clipboard like a shield, her face a mask of furious disbelief.

And on the elevated pavilion—

Hades’s voice cut into the sudden quiet that had fallen over his immediate area. His eyes, which had been fixed on the track, now blazed with a cold, possessive fury.

"Now... what the actual hell?"