Page 29 of Chained to the Champion
My own body pulsed with thwarted urgency, the battle to regain even a semblance of composure, a visible tremor in my claws, still pressed against her skin.
“We have to—” I was so reluctant I couldn't finish the sentence, the words scraping my throat raw, tasting like ashes and defeat.
She nodded slowly, the spell violently broken, but the tension remained; thick enough to taste, humming between us like a strained wire.
With a hesitance that felt like tearing living flesh, I pushed myself up, away from her heat, her intoxicating scent, her impossible softness. The loss of contact was immediate, an ache opening up a cold void where her warmth had been pressed so intimately against me only moments before.
She sat up, pushing tangled, sweat-dampened hair from her flushed face. The sight of her, thoroughly kissed, disheveled, lips still bearing the imprint of my mouth, her body a canvas of bruises and raw need, tested my shattered control to its absolute breaking limit.
Turning away sharply before I did something irreparable, something that would doom us both, I forced myself toward the pile of discarded clothing near the door.
“Prepare yourself,” I commanded, my voice harsher than intended, strained and rough, brittle with the effort of containing the inferno still raging uncontrolled within me. “The feast will not wait.”
12
VEGA
The Blood Hallearned its name. Columns made of skulls with eye sockets oozing unnatural red light. The air hit me like a fist. It was rotten with roasting meat, something fermented, and the unmistakable iron tang of fresh blood. My stomach lurched.
Subtle, these Ignarath weren't.
Zarvash's grip tightened around my upper arm as we approached the massive entryway. Not painful, but firm. A reminder.
I was his property. His possession. His prize.
Fuck.
“Ah, the warrior from Scalvaris arrives!” a booming voice cut through the noise. The Tournament Master stepped forward, his bulk somehow more impressive in ceremonial garb—crimson fabric draped over one shoulder, exposing a chest covered in scales and scars glittering with oil.
“Master.” Zarvash inclined his head, voice carefully neutral.
“Please,” the Tournament Master's smile was all teeth, “such formality is unnecessary tonight. Call me Skorai.” He clapped a meaty hand on Zarvash's shoulder. “You honor us with your participation.” His eyes slid to me, lingering in a way that made my skin crawl. “And with your … unusual companion.”
“Honor indeed,” Zarvash replied, revealing nothing.
Skorai gestured expansively. “The warriors' table awaits. Come.”
Zarvash scowled at me. “Make yourself useful.” His breath was hot against my ear, claws digging into my arm hard enough to leave pinpricks of blood.
I nodded jerkily. Voice? Gone. Did I trust it if I could manage a squeak? Hell no.
Useful. Right. The word tasted foul. I had to remember who I was to these people.
Just a thing.
Not his … whatever the hell had happened back in that room. Almost happened. Halfway happened.
My body burned with the memory of it.
My wrists still tingled where he'd touched me, the ghost of his tongue a phantom brand on my skin. His taste lingered on my lips, and between my legs, a persistent, maddening ache throbbed in time with my pulse. We'd been inches from crossing a line, and then that damned horn blared.
Was I grateful or furious? Hell if I knew.
Zarvash's scales caught the light as he turned away, following Skorai deeper into the Blood Hall. My gaze traced the powerful line of his back, the tight fold of his injured wing, the way his tail swished with barely contained tension.
“Useful,” I muttered to myself. “I'll show you fucking useful.”
Long tables groaned under platters of meat so rare it still oozed blood. The air, thick, choking. Smoke, roasted flesh, and the pungent musk of too many Drakarn warriors packed into too small a space.
