Page 38 of Chained to the Champion
Harkon's eyes met mine. Rage gave way to something else—resignation, perhaps. Or respect. Slowly, deliberately, he tossed his weapon in the sand before him in formal surrender.
I glanced at Skorai's pavilion, waiting for judgment. The Tournament Master stood, face impassive. He extended his hand horizontally and accepted Harkon's yield.
No death today.
My leg throbbed, blood seeping into the sand. Smaller cuts stung across my arms and torso. My damaged wing ached fiercely from exertion.
But I had won. Survived. Advanced.
Guards appeared to help Harkon from the arena. As they passed, he paused and met my eyes. Slowly, he inclined head in a warrior's acknowledgment. I returned the gesture.
Respect for respect.
The crowd was already turning its attention to the next bout. The next spectacle. I limped toward the exit gate. Adrenaline ebbed, leaving exhaustion.
This fight had cost me. And they would only get harder from there.
14
VEGA
Alone.Finally.
The echo of violence still buzzed in my blood. Every time I watched Zarvash take a hit, I clenched around a cold spike of terror; every time his claws raked or he landed a blow, heat surged, primal and fierce, beneath my sternum. I was exhausted and wired, shaking with the relief of it all.
I dragged myself to the battered ceramic basin beside the rickety window, the water inside splashing around my shaking hands. The rag was almost clean and rough enough to score skin. Zarvash was in the middle of the room, broad back turned to me.
Bronze scales dulled under a crust of arena sand were scored by fresh blood. The air between us was thick: copper tang, scorched iron, the wild ozone scent that was all him.
“Sit.” It should have sounded gentle, but it was scraped bare with hunger and fatigue. I nodded at the sleeping platform; there was nowhere else for him to go.
He hesitated, that proud line of his jaw tightening, chin lifting a fraction as if deciding whether to take orders from a fragile human. Then, movement. Minimal, efficient. He lowered himself until I imagined the stone groaning beneath his weight.
“Your leg,” I said, knees already hitting the floor. But this wasn't about submission. Not in there, with no prying eyes.
The wound streaking his calf was an angry gash, long and oozing, sand and blood glittering in the gloom. My fingers hovered before the first touch, knowing it would hurt. He didn't flinch. He just watched with those disconcerting, gold eyes. Despite the stillness, he seemed coiled, restraint wound tight enough to snap.
I pressed the rag to his skin. My own heart thudded faster, stupidly, irrationally, as if blood and dust and brutal beauty were a new form of oxygen.
“You fought—” I swallowed the word “well”; it was too small for what he’d done in the pit. “You’re still here.”
“Harkon was tenacious,” he ground out.
“But you were smarter.” My voice was too high, the last dregs of worry not quite faded. “That feint with the damaged wing? Inspired.”
A huff of breath, almost a snort, brushed the hair at my temple as I leaned in, dabbing at a cut above muscle so thick I could barely dent it. “Not a feint,” he muttered.
I kept working, rag turning the water a muddied red-brown. I tried for detachment, but the scent of him invaded my senses, dizzying, too much. My fingers, traitorous, lingered an impossibly long beat tracing the wound on his forearm. Testing the edge of hurt, or perhaps, invitation.
“Did you find anything?” he asked, eyes unblinking, unreadable.
“They move the humans between holding cells during the main events. There’s a window of stupidity, and the guards get distracted by the fights.”
“We'll keep that in mind,” was his only response.
At last, I’d cleaned what I could. I was no medic, but I was pretty sure the cuts were superficial. “Turn,” I said, voice steadier than my hands. “Your wing.”
“It’s functional,” he bit out.
