Page 30 of Chained to the Horned God
“I know that too.”
“Then why the long face?”
I tear a chunk of bread off and chew it dry.
“Because she’s burning herself alive to keep us warm.”
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. He just shifts on his cot and shuts his eyes.
I stay awake longer. Listening to the moans of men too wounded to scream. The drip of blood into pails. The soft, rasping rhythm of Valoa’s breath across the room. It’s steady. Quiet. Sacred.
I lean back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as if it holds answers. But all it shows me are cracks and dust and the ghost of my own guilt.
Because she was right.
I’ve been pretending we’re in control. Pretending this thing between us—whatever fragile, quiet thing it is—is a choice, not a product of our captivity. I’ve been letting the crowd's roars fool me into believing I have power. But I don’t. Not really.
We’re all just dancing for monsters. Praying the music doesn’t stop.
For a moment, just a moment, I pretend we’re free.
She’s beside me, not across the room. My arms around her. Her body warm against mine. No chains. No screams. Just the wind, and the sea, and a fire burning in the hearth.
I know it’s a lie.
But it’s the only thing that lets me sleep.
I dream of her.Not the way she looks when she’s bandaging torn flesh or cursing at guards. No, in the dream she’s laughing—free, full-bodied, head tilted back like she’s never been hurt. Her hair is windblown, her skin sun-warmed, her eyes bright and sharp as lightning over calm water. I see her mouth moving, saying something I can’t quite hear, but I know the sound of it is meant for me.
Then she leans in.
Soft lips brush mine in a kiss that’s more sunlight than skin. I feel her fingers curl into my mane like they belong there. My hands cradle her waist like I’ve always known how. The ache that pulses through my gut isn’t lust, not exactly—it’s something older, deeper. Like wanting to be known, truly known, and not found lacking.
I wake in the dark, biting my tongue to keep from groaning.
My cock’s hard as steel, pressed awkwardly against the inside of my thigh beneath the threadbare blanket. I curse under my breath, dragging a hand over my face. The cell is still—too still. I glance sideways.
She’s there, still curled up on the cot across from me. Her breathing is even. Peaceful. One arm dangles over the edge of the mattress. Her fingers twitch now and then, like she’s dreaming too.
I shift onto my side, careful not to make noise. Shame rides my shoulders like a boulder. Not because of the dream—I’ve had worse. I’ve done worse. But because I want her in ways I don’t fully understand. Want her laughter and her quiet. Want her hand in mine when the blood’s stopped flowing. Want her to choose me, not because there’s no one else but because I’m enough.
That terrifies me more than any monster they’ve thrown into the arena.
I keep my distance. Even in dreams, I don’t touch her like that.
Not yet.
My body eventually settles, the ache easing into a dull throb behind my ribs. I don’t sleep again. Just watch her, listen to the rustle of rats in the corners and the occasional clang of distant gates being locked for the night.
When dawn creeps in through the crack near the ceiling, she stirs. Her eyes blink open, lashes thick with sleep, and she frowns like she’s trying to remember where she is. Then she sees me.
She doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But her face softens.
I sit up, joints creaking like old ship timbers, and reach into the cloth bundle beside me. It’s not much—just some dried meat, a hard crust of bread, and half a roasted root someone slipped me after yesterday’s win. I hold it out.
She swings her legs off the cot and comes to sit beside me without saying a word. She’s barefoot, hair mussed, eyes puffy. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in this pit.
I break the bread and offer her a piece. She takes it from my fingers, not bothering with manners or distance. Our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away.
