The guards came for me after the fight ended.
I'd watched from my usual spot in the cage next to Persico's private box, my fingers wrapped so tightly around the bars that my knuckles had gone white. My heart had been in my throat the entire time, pounding so hard I thought it might burst right out of my chest.
Ahrick versus Korroth the Draxian.
The Draxian was massive. Easily twice Ahrick's size, with scaled hide that looked like it could deflect blaster fire and claws that could disembowel a man with one swipe. His reptilian eyes had gleamed with predatory hunger as he'd entered the ring, and the crowd had gone wild at the sight of him. Korroth was a veteran of the gladiator fights—undefeated in his last twelve matches, with a body count that made the other fighters nervous. Hell, he'd been sent to Palaydium for perpetrating a slaughter that ended with thirty dead.
And Ahrick fought him anyway.
I'd watched him move through that ring like death itself—fast, brutal, efficient. Every movement calculated, every strike deliberate. But there were moments when it got too close. Moments that had made my breath catch and my stomach drop. When Korroth's claws raked across Ahrick's ribs, drawing bloodthat streamed down his side in dark rivulets. When the Draxian caught him in a crushing hold that lifted him off his feet, those massive arms squeezing tighter and tighter until I saw the strain on Ahrick's face, the way his jaw clenched against the pain. My chest had tightened with terror, my vision tunneling until all I saw was him struggling in that monster's grip.
But Ahrick had won.
He'd found an opening—a fraction of a second where Korroth's guard dropped—and he'd taken it. A vicious strike to the Draxian's throat, followed by a devastating combination that had sent the massive fighter stumbling. Then Ahrick had put him down hard, a final blow that left Korroth sprawled on the blood-stained sand. The crowd had erupted in a roar that shook the walls, a deafening wave of sound that seemed to go on forever.
And I'd seen something else, too.
Hewes.
He'd been in the crowd, standing in one of the private boxes reserved for Persico's inner circle, his pale face visible from where I sat. And when Ahrick won—when he stood over Korroth's body with blood streaming down his side and his chest heaving with exertion—Hewes's face had twisted with rage.
Pure, impotent fury.
His hands had gripped the railing of his box so hard I thought he might snap it. His mouth had moved, saying something I couldn't hear over the roar of the crowd, but I didn't need to hear it to know it wasn't good.
Hewes reaction had made me smile. Made something dark and satisfied curl in my chest, warming me from the inside out at the thought he didn't get his way.
Now the guards were leading me through the winding corridors toward the prize room, and my pulse was racing for entirely different reasons.
Ahrick had won. Which meant I was his prize again.
Which meant we had tonight.
The door opened with a heavy creak, and they shoved me inside roughly, not bothering with any semblance of gentleness.
The room was dim—just the faint glow from the narrow window high on the wall casting long shadows across the floor. The air smelled like stone and metal and something else, something I couldn't quite identify. I stumbled forward, catching myself against the wall, my palms scraping against the rough surface, and then—
Ahrick.
He crossed the room in three strides and pulled me against him, his mouth finding mine with desperate intensity. His hands were strong and sure, one cupping the back of my head, the other pressing against the small of my back, crushing me against his chest.
I gasped against his lips, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders. He tasted like blood and sweat and victory, and I kissed him back with everything I had.
His hands were in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but feel. Feel his heart pounding against mine, the warmth of his skin, the solid reality of him alive and whole and here.
Then he pulled back just enough to press his forehead against mine, his breath coming in ragged gasps that matched my own.
And he put one finger to his lips.
Silence.
I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs.
He took my hand and led me deeper into the room, away from the door. We sat on the edge of the narrow bed, and he pulled me close, his arm around my shoulders, his mouth nearmy ear. I felt the warmth of his breath against my skin, scented the copper tang of blood that still clung to him.
"They're still outside," he breathed, so quiet I almost couldn't hear him even though his lips were practically touching my ear. "Wait."
So we waited.
