Page 48 of Chained to the Horned God
I flinch. Scared. The word trembles on my lips. “I don’t like that.”
He watches me, expression taut. “Then give me something to believe in.”
The suddenness catches me—only his scent, his heat, the buried tremble I know well. And he leans in and kisses me so hard it hurts, not careless but feral, wanting. The faint brush of leather and steel and salt and blood—an intimate revelation in teeth and tongue and heart.
When lips part, he breathes, “Believe in us.”
I taste tear and terror and longing. I relax, letting him pull me onto the cot against the bedding that smells of steam and lavender oil. I hold his face in my palms, eyes tracing the shards of scars on his cheek, the faint silver line above his forehead. I cling to him until I feel something like hope.
We don’t speak again until the torch guttering above sputters flame. He slides his hand into mine, fingers lacing. His voice is low: “You don’t have to carry this alone.”
I nod, chest tight.
He nods back.
When he finally lies down, I climb beside him and rest my head against his large shoulder. His heartbeat is steady beneath mine—thunder in the chest of a storm tamed. Walls shake as gates opening echo in distant halls, footsteps marking shift changes. But inside, with legs twisted together and breath slow, there's only us and the fragile dawn just behind closing eyes.
That night, sleep doesn’t find me. I perch beside Barsok, body curled in the low pallet, sweeping my hands through the weave of the bedroll to steady myself against the tremor of fear and longing. His breath, even in sleep, is a low tide—steady, slumbering, tethering me to something beyond this pit’s endless cruel demands. I watch him inhale, exhale, and I realize what home even looks like in shadowed cells.
My fingers brush the carved minotaur figure tucked beneath my tunic—smoothed edges from the countless nights I’ve held it like a talisman. I feel the rough scar that arcs beneath my breast where the chimera clawed me, throbbing with memory. I breathe in the smell of sweat, old linen, steam wafting through rusted bars combined with the lavender oil I applied sneaked through stolen rags. It's a scent made of battlefields and fragile peace.
I dwell on the choices coming—a path toward escape, toward Beltran’s alliance; a path towards revolution; a path towards exile with him; maybe toward death. I envision gardens turned from jungle ruin, beds warm beneath simple quilts, names spoken not in fear but in love—Barsok, tender and reverent, and my own name echoed gently in his longing. I bite the inside of my lip, tasting copper and anxiety and resolve. I think of what I’d kill—every guard, every noble, every snide whisper in silk—to keep him alive.
He shifts and groans softly in his sleep. His arm snakes behind me, musk and warmth, dragging me closer into his chest.I smell sea salt and leather and the faint copper edge of his blood-streaked bandages. I press closer, letting my cheek rest where I can hear the hum of his heartbeat.
When he opens his eyes, they’re glassy with sleep but bright with something unspoken. He lifts a hand to the back of my neck and exhales low. “You smell like fire and salt,” he mutters.
I press my lips to his brow, tracing the silver scar there that veins jagged like lightning across his skin. “That’s because I’m burning for you,” I whisper back, voice breathless and steady.
He doesn’t answer. But he tightens his hold—wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me flush to him, as if I’m the only thing standing between him and the abyss. I rest my head beneath his jaw, breathing in the loop of fur and scar and strength.
We stay like that until my tears dry on his chest. His steady breath sinks me toward sleep—soft, inevitable, protective. The world outside disturbs the silence—guards shifting, distant contraband clinks, a death echoing through attic halls. But inside this fragile cocoon, thunder refuses to reach us.
His fingers trace small circles in my ribs. I feel one of the ribs beneath my wound pop gently—he doesn't pull back. I gasp against the pain. His chest thumps hot beneath mine, familiar and unwavering.
I realize then that love isn’t a promise born in safety. Love is forging forward believing in someone when everything tells you it’s impossible. Love is burning for someone across rust and whispers and shadows.
“Stay with me,” he breathes in sleep, words heavy in dark.
“I will,” I promise, voice muffled.
He shifts, pulling me tighter. I drift over the edge of darkness, anchored by his heartbeat and shaped by the possibility that one day, maybe—just maybe—there’ll be a garden waiting beyond this arena.
And in that moment, I understand: I’ll burn it all down for that chance.
16
BARSOK
The guards shift through the corridors like pieces on a chessboard—silent steps, subtle repositioning, trained eyes scanning. I sense it before I see it: formation shifting, rotations changed, guards who once ignored me now linger at thresholds. It’s more than routine. It’s anticipation.
I find Durk beside the training yard’s ramp, leaning on his one good leg. The air tastes of dust and sweat and impending confrontation. He watches me with that sharp orcish clarity, missing nothing. I ask, voice low: “You see that?”
He nods once. Not a flicker of surprise. Not a scoff. Just heavy expectancy. “They’re watching you, brother.”
The word—brother—carries the weight of loyalty. I don’t hesitate. I growl low, a taut rumble in my chest. “Every match feels like bait now.” His gaze tightens. I continue through grinding breaths: “Like they’re waiting for me to misstep.”
He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t need to.
