Page 33 of Bought by the Broken Beast
They scramble from the room, their fear a palpable scent in the air. The door clicks shut behind them, leaving us in a sudden, profound silence.
We are alone.
I hobble toward her, my gaze never leaving her face. She looks at me, her dark eyes a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and a deep, aching sorrow that mirrors my own. The ghosts of the men we lost, of the betrayal we suffered, hang in the air between us.
I stop before her, my body a landscape of fresh wounds and old scars. I am a broken, battered thing. But in her eyes, I see not a monster, but a man.
I lower myself to my knees before her, an act of supplication, of worship. The pain in my leg is a cleansing fire, a necessary penance. I am at her feet, where I belong.
Her hands, small and trembling, come up to cup my face. Her touch is a benediction, a balm on my wounded soul. “You are alive,” she whispers, her voice becoming a raw, broken thing.
“You saved me,” I reply, my own voice rough with an emotion I cannot name. “Your courage… it saved us all.”
I see the grime on her face, the faint, dark bruise on her cheek where Lyra must have struck her. I see the small, bloody scratches on her hands from her desperate fight for survival. And the rage, the protective fury, it returns, a white-hot inferno in my chest. But this time, I control it. I channel it into something else. Into care.
I reach for the basin of warm water the servants left behind. I take a soft linen cloth and dip it in the water. My hands, which have only ever known the haft of an axe, the grip of a sword, the brutal finality of breaking bone, are clumsy, awkward. But I am gentle. Gods, I am so gentle.
I begin to clean the grime from her face, my touch as soft as a whisper. I clean the dried blood from a small cut on her temple. I wash the dust of the arena from her hands, my thumb stroking the delicate skin of her palm. She watches me, her eyes wide, luminous, tracking my every movement. She does not speak. She does not have to. The silence between us is filled with a thousand unspoken words.
We are survivors. We are partners. We are… more.
I finish my clumsy ministrations. I am still kneeling before her not caring about my wounds, my hands holding hers. The chaos of the world, the political turmoil, the weight of our new, unwanted fame—it all fades away. There is only this. This quiet room. This fragile peace. This woman, who holds my shattered honor, my very soul, in her small, ink-stained hands.
The exhaustion of the past days, of the past years, crashes over me in a single, overwhelming wave. My body is a spent force, my mind a hollowed-out ruin. I cannot stand. I cannot move.
I lower my head until it rests in her lap, the scent of her, of soap and parchment and pure, unadulterated Bella, filling my senses. Her fingers thread into my hair, her touch a soothing, gentle caress.
“Rest, Votoi,” she whispers, voice a soft, beautiful melody. “You are home.”
I do not have the strength to make it back to my own bed. I will not leave her side anyway. I pull a heavy, cushioned chair to the side of her own, and I sink into it, my body screaming in protest. I reach for her hand, my fingers lacing through hers, a silent, desperate promise that I will not let her go.
The last thing I see before the darkness claims me is her face, soft and beautiful in the firelight, her eyes finally, finally free of fear.
26
BELLA
For the first two weeks of my new life, I am convinced I am in a dream. I wake each morning not to the cold, damp stone of a crypt, but to the impossible softness of silk sheets. Sunlight, not the flickering gloom of a single lantern, streams through tall, arched windows, carrying the scent of salt and sea from the harbor below. We are housed in the royal guest wing of the palace, a gilded cage of breathtaking beauty, and the silence is the most luxurious thing of all. It is a silence born not of fear, but of peace.
The world outside our chambers is in turmoil. Malacc is in the deepest dungeon beneath the arena, awaiting his trial and inevitable execution. His co-conspirators are being rounded up daily, their names a litany of the most powerful and respected Vakkak and Zotkak houses in the kingdom. The Zusvak, now under the care of a new, fiercely loyal physician, is slowly, steadily regaining his strength. The poison has been identified, the antidote administered. Milthar is healing.
And so are we.
Votoi’s leg is a testament to the skill of the royal physicians. The wound, which should have crippled him for life, is knittingback together with a speed that is a testament to his Minotaur blood. But he is a terrible patient. He chafes under the forced inactivity, his frustration a low, simmering storm in our quiet chambers.
“This is a mockery of a limb,” he growls, glaring at the ornate, carved cane that now leans against his chair. He tries to stand without it, his pride a stubborn, foolish thing. A sharp, indrawn hiss of pain is his only reward, and he collapses back into the chair, his jaw tight.
I move to his side, my hand resting on his massive, furred shoulder. “The physician said it will take time, Votoi. Even a Son of Saru is made of flesh and bone.”
His hand comes up to cover mine, his touch a familiar, possessive heat. “My flesh is weak. My bones have failed me.”
“Your flesh and bone saved a kingdom,” I counter softly, my fingers lacing through his. “They have earned a rest.”
He looks at me then, the storm in his amber eyes calming, replaced by that raw, unguarded intensity that still makes my heart skip a beat. In these quiet moments, we are learning a new language, one that is not forged in desperation and fear. We are learning the simple, domestic rhythm of a life lived together. I read to him from scrolls from the royal library in the long afternoons. He tells me stories of the arena, not of the glory, but of the men, the brothers he lost. We eat our meals in a comfortable silence, the ghosts of our past a quiet, constant presence, but no longer the screaming horrors they once were.
But even in this gilded cage, I am an outsider. Vakkak lords, their names and titles restored now that Malacc’s web of lies has been burned away, come to pay their respects to Votoi. They are great, powerful bulls of Minotaurs, their horns gleaming, their armor immaculate. They speak to Votoi of politics, of the trials, of the restructuring of the Zu Kus. And they look at me as if I ama piece of furniture. A human pet. A curiosity. They do not mean to be cruel. It is simply that, in their world, I do not exist.
I am a hero of the kingdom, yes. The Zusvak himself declared it. I am legally free, my slave status erased by royal decree. But what am I? I am a human in a world of Minotaurs. A scribe with no ledgers to balance. A strategist whose war is over. I am adrift in a sea of silk and marble, and I have never felt more lost.
