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Daven held his gaze. “About what you are.”
The words settled between them, rough and possessive, and heat rolled low through Ryneth’s body all over again.
Daven picked up the bag of tiganos, tore off a piece, and held it out to him like the conversation had not just shifted something under Ryneth’s skin. “Eat. I am not carrying you in front of my family.”
Two hours later, the noise hit Ryneth before the arena did.
Even inside the private levels, he could hear the crowd. A roar under the floors. Thousands of voices folding into one hungry sound that rose and dropped like surf against metal. It got louder the deeper they went.
Daven’s hand never left him. It stayed fixed at the back of Ryneth’s hip as they moved through the secured corridor, broad and possessive, thumb hooked just above the waistband of his trousers. Gold-and-black uniforms lined the walls instead of academy silver. The guards were bigger, harder, built for spectacle as much as protection.
Ryneth kept his head up because Daven had told him to. He kept walking because Daven was guiding him forward. But by the time the final doors opened, his mouth had gone dry.
The Imperial viewing chamber above the arena was nothing like he expected.
Glass curved around the front of the room, looking down over the vast open bowl below where the arena floor gleamed under white light. Beyond it, tier after tier of seats climbed high into the structure, already packed with bodies. The sound hit harder up here, louder, wilder, pressing against the glass in waves.
The sight of it made his stomach twist.
Low black seating curved through the room, the silver tables already set with drinks. Attendants moved quietly between them. And along the sides, built into the curve of the wall, sat a row of private glass alcoves half-screened in dark tint and gold lattice, each one deep enough for a couch, a locked door, and whatever Helion’s princes wanted while they watched the blood below.
Ryneth slowed without meaning to.
Daven felt it, his hand tightening on Ryneth’s hip. “Keep walking, baby,” he murmured. “You’re fine.”
Ryneth dragged in a breath.
Daven’s mouth brushed his temple as they moved. “They’re looking because you matter now,” he said softly. “Not because you’re prey.”
They were all already there.
Milanov stood nearest the glass with one hand around a drink, dressed in black with gold flashing at his collar and cuffs. Moargan leaned against one of the low tables, his ceremonial jacket already open at the throat. Helianth was stretched across a couch like he owned the room. Even Cyprian, pale hair catching the light, looked less like an artist and more like a prince raised on power, right up until he smiled.
Milanov’s whole face changed. “There he is.”
He crossed the room in three easy steps and stopped in front of Ryneth, his gaze flicking once over the marks on Ryneth’s throat before settling on Daven’s hand still fixed on him.
“You came.”
Ryneth almost laughed. “I was invited.”
Milanov barked out a laugh. “Good. Means you’re learning.” His hand landed once on Ryneth’s shoulder, solid and approving. “I’m glad you’re here today.”
From across the room, Moargan lifted his glass. “You should be. He’s been walking around like he conquered a planet.”
Helianth snorted.
Cyprian glanced at Ryneth and smiled, gentler than the rest of them. “Ignore them. You’ll be fine.”
Even so, his gaze drifted toward the nearest alcove.
Inside it, the lights were lower. A black couch curved around the back wall. The glass was dark enough to hide details from the outside while still giving a clear view of the arena below.
His stomach dropped.
Daven’s mouth brushed his ear. “Eyes on me.”
Ryneth dragged in another breath.
