Page 26 of Chained to the Champion
Her gaze met mine, wary, assessing, but devoid of fear. Not of me, anyway. The crushing weight of our reality pressed down, tangible as the humid air. The Tournament Master’s predatory eyes fixed on Vega, the sickening enjoyment he’d taken in her forced submission, the memory sent a fresh surge of black, killing rage through my veins.
“I'm sorry.” The apology felt thin, utterly inadequate against the backdrop of her degradation. “For … all of that.”
“Don't.” She shook her head, strands of sweat-dampened hair falling across the livid mark on her jaw. “You played your part. We both did what was necessary.”
I moved to the narrow window slit, scanning the deserted, refuse-strewn street below. Clear, for now. The water pitcher on the rickety nightstand was half-full, the liquid stale but precious. I poured some onto a scrap of surprisingly clean cloth I found tucked away, then turned back to her.
“Let me.” I held up the damp rag, indicating the smear of dried blood clinging to her skin.
She hesitated for a moment. Then, with a small nod, she perched on the edge of the sleeping platform.
I knelt before her, forcing my movements to be slow, deliberate, devoid of the predatory quickness natural to me. The accumulated filth of the cells clung to her, layers of sweat, dried blood, fear, and the unique, pervasive stench of Ignarath's ever-present cruelty. My gut churned at the thought of the humiliations heaped upon her.
Because of me. Because of this damnable, inexplicable bond that tugged at my very bones, demanding I protect her with all I was.
Carefully, I brought the cloth to her face, gently wiping away the dark crust marring the corner of her mouth. Her skin was startlingly warm beneath the damp fabric, soft in a way that still felt profoundly alien against my scaled knuckles. She flinched when the cloth brushed a particularly tender spot near her eye, and I pulled back instantly.
“I'm fine,” she insisted. “Keep going.”
I resumed but kept my touch light. The cloth came away, stained by blood and dirt. With each slow pass, more of her true face emerged from beneath the grime—pale skin flushed with exertion and lingering adrenaline, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose like distant constellations, the sharp lines of fierceness etched around her mouth and eyes.
“I should have stopped you,” I said finally, the words low, tearing against the silence. “When you left. I should have anticipated this.”
Her eyes flashed with a spark of defiance. “I am not yours to manage.”
“Youarewhile we remain trapped in this viper's nest.” The words came out harsher than intended, laced with the fury I felt towards her captors, towards myself. I forced my tone to soften. “This city … Vega, you cannot comprehend the depths of their depravity.”
“I think,” she countered dryly, “I got a fairly visceral introduction.”
The angry red circles around her wrists made my own jaw clench so hard I felt the bones grind. Switching to a clean corner of the cloth, I carefully dabbed at the raw, abraded skin. They had dared to put chains on her.
“Was it worth it?” I asked, keeping my voice low, pitched beneath potential eavesdropping. “The humans?”
Her expression shifted, a fragile flicker of hope breaking through the exhaustion and pain. “Five in the lowest cells, beneath the arena sands. They confirmed it; Kira's sister is alive. But they've moved her, taken her somewhere outside the city walls. And then there were the three that I saw before the guards came. I didn't have much time to talk to them.”
“Alive is good. But it changes nothing about our immediate survival.”
I moved to rinse the cloth in the remaining water, needing the simple action. When I turned back, water dripping from the rag, she was tugging at the collar of her filthy, sweat-stiffened tunic, grimacing.
“I need to get this off. It reeks of that place.”
Before the implications could fully register, before I could form a coherent thought, she pulled the wretched tunic over her head in one swift, decisive motion.
My breath hitched, lodging somewhere high in my throat.
Look away.
Honor demanded it. Self-preservation screamed it.
But my eyes refused to obey, locked onto the sight of her, the pale, vulnerable expanse of her skin, the unexpected curve of her breasts bound tightly in some thin, practical wrapping, the brutal, beautiful constellation of purple and blue bruises blooming across her ribs. Wounded. Defiant. Utterly, impossibly alien and yet …
My hand tightened around the cloth. My mouth was suddenly bone dry. This was madness. Utter, self-destructive insanity. And yet, I moved behind her, drawn by a current stronger than reason, stronger than duty.
Her back was covered in faint, silvery lines of old scars I hadn't noticed before, stark against the fresh, angry bruises leftby rough handling, the delicate knobs of her spine leading down to the waistband of her dirt-caked pants. I pressed the cool, damp cloth gently against her skin, starting at the tense line of her shoulders, wiping away the layers of grime in long, slow, careful strokes. My claws, usually weapons, felt clumsy, overly large against her fragile skin.
She let out a sigh, a soft sound of relief that vibrated through the cloth, shivering down my own spine like a physical touch. I continued downward, tracing the elegant line of her backbone, feeling the subtle shift and play of muscle beneath her skin.
That close, her scent threatened to overwhelm my senses, not just the lingering stench of the prison, but something beneath it, that uniquely sweet, almost fiery spice that was intrinsicallyher, cutting through the filth, making my head swim, making my tongue tingle with a phantom taste.
