Page 8 of Bought by the Broken Beast
With a final, derisive snort, I reach down, grab the hem of my tunic, and rip the tough fabric from my shoulder, exposing the wound. It is a nasty gash, deep and oozing, the flesh around it already beginning to darken. The assassin’s blade was coated with something, a slow-acting poison meant to cripple, then kill.
She does not flinch. She does not recoil at the sight of the blood or the mangled flesh. She simply uncorks the waterskin and begins to clean the wound, her touch impossibly gentle.
The first touch of the cool, wet linen against my fevered skin is a shock. My entire body goes rigid. I am a creature of violence and brutality. My skin is a landscape of scars, a testament to a life of battle and pain. I have not known a gentle touch since my mother tended a childhood scrape, a lifetime ago.
Her fingers, small and stained with ink, are steady as they work, cleaning the edges of the gash with a meticulous care that is at odds with the grim surroundings. I watch her, my contempt warring with a strange, unsettling sense of admiration. She is terrified—I can see the faint tremor in her hands, the rigid set of her jaw—but she does not let her fear rule her. She pushes it down, compartmentalizes it, and focuses on the task at hand. It is a discipline I understand. It is the discipline of a warrior.
“You are not like the others,” I find myself saying, the words a low rumble in the quiet room.
Her gaze remains fixed on her work. “The other humans you have known?”
“They are soft. They cry. They cower.” I think of the screaming, simpering slaves in the houses of my Vakkak peers, the terrified chattel in the market. “You do not cower.”
She pauses, dipping the linen in the water again. “Cowering does not balance a ledger, and it does not keep you alive when you hold a secret that could burn down a kingdom. I learned long ago that the only thing I can rely on is my mind. My body is a cage. My mind is the key.”
Her words resonate with a truth that strikes me deeper than the assassin’s blade. I, too, am in a cage. A cage of shame, of lost honor. And my mind, my thirst for vengeance, is the only key I have left.
She finishes cleaning the wound and uncorks the vial of herbs. She sprinkles the fine, green powder into the gash. It stings, a clean, sharp fire that is a welcome change from the dull throb of the poison. I do not so much as flinch, a point of pride I cannot relinquish.
Her eyes flicker up to mine, acknowledging my stillness with a glimpse of something I cannot name. Respect?
She takes a fresh strip of linen and begins to bind the wound, her movements practiced and efficient. Her proximity is… unsettling. I can smell the faint, clean scent of her skin beneath the dust and grime of our escape, a scent of parchment and soap. Her hair, pulled back so tightly, reveals the delicate shell of her ear, the vulnerable line of her neck. I am acutely aware of my own size, of the immense, brutal power I hold in my body, and of the incredible, terrifying control it is taking not to react to her closeness.
My entire world becomes this small, quiet room. The gentle pressure of her hands on my arm. The soft sound of her breathing. The intense focus in her dark, intelligent eyes. The rage, the shame, the roaring beast in my soul—it all goes quiet, silenced by the steady, unassuming presence of this human woman.
She ties off the bandage, her work complete. Her hands linger on my arm for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
My gaze lifts from her hands to her face. She is looking at me, her expression unreadable. The distance between us is nothing, a breath of air. The air crackles, thick with unspoken energy, with the raw, undeniable truth of our situation: a disgraced monster and a clever slave, bound together by a desperate, impossible pact. In her eyes, I do not see fear. I see a reflection of my own fierce, burning will to survive.
The connection is a jolt, a spark of lightning in the desolate landscape of my soul. It is too much. It is a vulnerability I cannot afford, an intimacy I have really no right to feel.
I pull my arm away abruptly, the sudden movement making her flinch. The spell is broken. I stand, turning my back to her, putting the cold, hard distance of the room between us. The beast in my soul roars back to life, enraged by the moment of weakness.
“Your debt is paid for the wound,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, harsh with an emotion I cannot name.
7
BELLA
The silence Votoi leaves in his wake is a living thing, a heavy, crackling presence that fills every corner of the dusty room. He stands with his back to me, a mountain of rigid muscle and simmering resentment, his rejection a wall as solid and unyielding as the one he shattered to save us. My hand, the one that had just finished binding his wound, feels strangely empty, cold. For a single, insane moment, there was something other than fear and desperation between us. A connection. A flicker of understanding in the amber depths of his eyes. Now, it’s gone, buried under an avalanche of Vakkak pride and ingrained contempt.
I am a fool. A naive, sentimental fool. He is a weapon, I remind myself, the words a bitter, silent chant. A tool I purchased to ensure my survival. Nothing more. To think otherwise is a weakness, a complication I cannot afford. Lyra was right.
The heavy bolt on the door scrapes back, and I flinch, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of the small dagger I’d managed to tuck into my boot before fleeing Kairen’s estate. It’sa pathetic weapon against a Minotaur, but it’s the only one that is truly mine.
Lyra enters, her scarred face a picture of grim neutrality. She carries a wooden tray laden with a loaf of dark bread, a wedge of hard cheese, two bruised apples, and a pitcher of water. It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. She sets the tray on the floor with a dull thud, her gaze sweeping over me before landing on Votoi’s broad, unmoving back. The neutrality in her expression vanishes, replaced by a storm of raw, unfiltered anger.
“So this is what has become of the great Votoi Saru,” she says in a dangerous snarl. “Hiding in a storage closet above my tavern, bleeding on my floor, with a human chit for a shield.”
Votoi turns slowly, his movements deliberate, controlled. The air in the room becomes thick, heavy with a tension so profound it feels like I’m breathing water. He and Lyra stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. There is a history here, a deep, tangled web of moments that I am not privy to. They are two predators in a cage, and I am the fragile, unwanted thing caught between them.
“She is not my shield, Lyra,” Votoi’s voice is a growl of warning.
Lyra lets out a harsh, barking laugh. “No? Then what is she? Your master?” She spits the word like a curse, her eyes flashing. “I heard the talk from the market. A human bought your contract. Aslavebought the Son of Saru. Have you fallen so far that you now answer to the leash of a lesser being?”
Every word is a deliberate blow, aimed to wound his pride, to cut him where he is most vulnerable. I can see the muscles in his jaw bunch, the slow clenching and unclenching of his massive fists. He is a storm held in check by a thread of iron will. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the thread to snap.
What are they to each other? Her anger is too personal, too intimate for a mere acquaintance. It burns with the heat of betrayal. Were they lovers, once? Comrades in arms? The questions swirl in my mind, a useless, dangerous distraction. It is not my place to know. It is not my business. My business is survival.
