Page 7 of Bought by the Broken Beast
Relief, so potent it almost makes my knees buckle, washes through me. Sanctuary.
“My thanks,” Votoi says, the words sounding stiff, unused.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Lyra warns, her sharp gaze finding me again. She looks me up and down, her expression a mixture of pity and contempt. “Whatever trouble you’re in, the human is at the heart of it. They always are. A weakness. A complication.”
“She is not a weakness. We’re allies,” Votoi says, and the quiet finality in his tone silences the room once more. It is the first time he has defended me, and the shock of it is a jolt to my system. He is not just my weapon. He is my ally. The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
Lyra holds his gaze for a long moment, then gives a slow, reluctant nod. She seems to be mourning the warrior he once was, the friend she once knew. Her loyalty, it seems, is to a ghost.
“Fine,” she concedes, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Get upstairs. Stay out of sight. I’ll bring up some food and water when I can.” She leans forward, her voice a grim warning meant for him, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Malacc’s influence runs deep, even down here in the dirt. His men have been busy in the past few hours, I assume he’s the reason why you’re here. You see, Macacc has coin, and coin buys eyes and ears everywhere. You brought a storm to my door, Vakkak. See that it doesn’t tear the roof off.”
6
VOTOI
The room Lyra gives us is little more than a closet, smelling of dust, old grain, and the faint, lingering scent of despair. A single, grime-caked window looks out over a narrow alley, its view a testament to the dregs of the city. A thin mattress stuffed with what feels like straw lies in one corner, a pathetic offering of comfort. It is a fitting throne room for a fallen king.
I stand in the center of the space, the adrenaline from our flight through the city slowly draining away, leaving behind the familiar, hollow ache of my existence. The throbbing in my shoulder, where the assassin’s hook tore through flesh and muscle, is a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic beating of my heart. Pain is an old acquaintance. In the arena, it is a constant companion, a fire that burns away all thought until only the instinct to survive remains. This pain is different. It is a reminder of my failure, of being cornered, of needing a human’s quick thinking to find an escape.
The human—Bella—slides the heavy bolt on the door, the sound echoing in the small space with a grim finality. She leans against the wood for a moment, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. She is small, so fragile. A creatureof bone and soft flesh. I have seen arena beasts with more physical presence. And yet, she did not scream. She did not panic. She thought.
My contempt, the shield I have carried for so long, feels heavy and ill-fitting. It is a simple thing to despise weakness. But I am beginning to suspect she is not weak at all, merely… breakable. And the distinction is a dangerous one.
She pushes herself away from the door, her gaze sweeping the room with a scholar’s analytical precision before it lands on me. Her eyes, the color of rich earth, narrow, tracking a dark line of blood that trickles down my arm from the gash in my shoulder.
“You are injured,” she states, her voice a quiet, factual thing.
I glance at the wound as if noticing it for the first time. “It is nothing.”
A Vakkak warrior does not acknowledge pain. He endures it. He masters it. To speak of it means to give it power. My father taught me that lesson with the flat of a training blade when I was just a calf.
“It is not nothing,” she counters, her voice losing its detached quality and taking on a sharp, insistent edge. She gestures to the wound with her chin. “It will fester if it is not cleaned. Sit.”
The command is so unexpected, so audacious, that I can only stare at her. A slave, her throat still likely bearing the shadow of my own hand, is ordering me as if I were a disobedient hound. A harsh, guttural laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“You forget your place, human.”
“My place is to ensure my investment does not die of a poisoned blade or a rotting wound before he has fulfilled his purpose,” she retorts, her gaze unwavering. She unties the heavy satchel of coin and sets it on the floor, then begins rummaging through a smaller pouch at her waist. “I am a scribe. I am also responsible for maintaining my master’s—myformermaster’s—household accounts, which included the purchase of medical supplies. I know how to treat a wound. Now, sit down.”
She produces a small roll of clean linen, a vial of antiseptic herbs, and a waterskin. She is not asking. She is proceeding as if my compliance is a foregone conclusion. The sheer, unmitigated gall of it is both infuriating and… intriguing. No one has spoken to me with such authority since my father.
I remain standing, a mountain of defiance. “I do not require your assistance.”
“And I do not require your permission,” she says, her voice dropping, becoming as sharp and pointed as a stiletto. “You made a blood oath, Votoi Saru. You swore to protect me. You cannot do that if you are fevered and dying. Your pride is a luxury neither of us can afford. Do not make me remind you of the contract that I hold.”
The threat is veiled, but it is there. The contract. The leash. A reminder that for all my strength, she holds the legal claim to my life. My jaw tightens, the muscles bunching until they ache. To be beholden to anyone is a torment. To be beholden to a human is a unique and exquisite form of hell.
But she is right. Her logic is as clean and sharp as a freshly honed blade. A dead gladiator is of no use to her. And a dead gladiator cannot find his vengeance.
With a low growl of frustration that is equal parts rage and resignation, I stalk to the lone wooden stool in the corner and sit. The wood groans under my weight. I do not remove my torn tunic, an act of petty defiance.
She approaches me without hesitation, her movements economical and precise. She kneels before me, placing her meager supplies on the dusty floor. The scent of the antiseptic herbs—a sharp, clean smell of fylvek grass and rirzed—cuts through the stale air of the room.
“The tunic,” she says, voice soft again, all business.
I stare down at her, at the top of her head, at the dark hair pulled back so severely. I can end her with a single, casual blow. The thought is a dark whisper in the back of my mind, a remnant of the beast I have become in the arena. But the beast is silent now, watching, waiting.
