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“I don’t think a man like Titus can be broken,” he says, before blowing the smoke off to the side. “Think the beast inside of him just fell into a deep sleep is all.”

“Well, let’s hope a needle and thread doesn’t wake it up.”

Shoving the cigarette between his lips, the guard clicks open the door to Titus’s cell and, stepping inside, strides across the room and flicks on the naked bulb dangling from the ceiling.

My muscles instantly tense as I stare into the room. The first thing I notice are the thick chains extending out from the stained and pitted stone wall, which attach to metal shackles at his wrists. Like a caged animal. The muzzle has been removed, revealing his unshaven and unkempt facial hair.

For such a prized investment, they’ve certainly not taken very good care of him. Long strands of greasy, unwashed hair hang over his eyes, and cling to his forehead.

Taking a deep breath, I pad cautiously toward the man, and still, he doesn’t bother to look at me.

“Miss Thalia is going to clean and stitch your wounds for you. Don’t give her any trouble, alright?”

Titus turns to look up at the guard, and wordlessly looks away.

Still not bothering to acknowledge me.

“I don’t expect any trouble, but just in case, I’ll wait outside,” the guard says on passing.

“Thanks.”

Not that Titus could do much with his hands shackled to the wall, but I suppose there’s enough give for him to throttle my neck, if he got the notion.

The cloying scent of death and rot hangs on the air in a damp cloud that hits the back of my throat with every breath. In spite of the summer heat outside these walls, I feel like I’ve stepped into the embrace of a cold shroud, like walking into a morgue. There’s nothing to sleep on--no cot, or even the straw that an animal might be offered against the hard, unforgiving concrete. The man has been stripped of the most basic comforts in this place.

And a part of me mourns for him, because without the strength and skills he possesses, despite his obvious neglect, I would’ve been offered up as a sacrifice.

I’ve not forgotten what I owe this man.

Supplies in hand, I kneel down to the floor beside him, my eyes immediately drawn to the irregularly shaped scars on his skin. Across his throat, a metal band digs into his flesh, as if he’s worn it awhile. It reminds me of something a slave would wear, but not even the slaves picked up from the Deadlands back in Szolen wore devices so unquestionably degrading as a collar. The gypsies, as others in our community called them, were kept in multi-unit housing, with as many as six in a single one-room apartment. They worked the menial jobs, like the fields and compost, sewage and pipelines, and were scanned every day for signs of infection. A far cry from the lavish lifestyle of those in the more affluent parts of the community, but better than this. Better than being held in a cold damp cell, arms shackled to the wall, and a metal band at the throat to guide about like some kind of beastly clod.

A slight tremble hums beneath my skin with my proximity to the man who’s at least twice my size. In the arena, he appeared smaller than the mutation, but here, even slumped against the wall, he’s massive and imposing. Fitting for his moniker, as he reminds me of the gods I learned about in Greek mythology, every muscle chiseled and carved to the kind of perfection Madame Beaumont would find worthy of display. Even at rest, his muscles are hard, bulging with the threat of pain, should someone dare touch him. I’ve never seen a man so cut with precision. Genetically superior in every way.

In spite of the layer of dirt and grime, his unkempt hair and tattered clothes, it’s not hard to see he’s exceptionally attractive, in a rugged sort of way.

Dipping the cloth into the bowl of water, I squeeze off the excess and gently apply it to the first grisly gash across his stomach. He doesn’t so much as flinch with the contact. Gentle, so as not to rouse his irritation, I daub the dirt from the channel of flesh, and dip the cloth again to rinse the blood.

“The creature that did this … its claws must’ve been sharp as knives. The edges are clean enough to stitch nicely.”

Only the tic of his perfectly sculpted jaw shows any response to my comment.

“It’s likely of no consequence to you, but I’m grateful for what you did today.” Using a syringe of sterile water from the supply pack, I irrigate his wound, and a tiny black fragment of dirt spills out over the edge of it, which I brush away with my finger.

His stomach muscles flex with the contact, and my eyes are once again drawn to the sharp angles of his face.

“I understand they call you the God of Monsters.”

Lips twitching, as if he wants to smile but won’t, he stares off. Nothing more than a flicker of humor that’s quickly snuffed by the return of his impassive expression.

“You find that amusing. Why?”

“A god can’t be held in chains.”

A man’s voice shouldn’t reach down inside the chest and stir it like a hand caught inside a jar of butterflies, but it does. The deep baritone timbre only stokes my fascination, the shock of hearing him speak rousing my curiosity, and the profoundly masculine sound is pleasing in a way I wouldn’t dare admit.

“And yet, I watched five men before you fall to horrible, brutal deaths. But here you are, with no more than a few minor wounds to show for it.”

“If they’re minor, then why are you here?” The bite in his tone sounds off his obvious irritation with my presence.