by Abby James
The lead soldier marched to the far side of the room, stripping off his shirt as he went. He tossed it against the wall, then rotated his shoulders and stretched his arms. A tattoo covered the entirety of his back, something symbolic that snaked long arms up to his shoulders. My breath hitched as I watched the bulge of his muscles ripple the tattoo, making it appear alive. The sight of him stirred untamed feelings in deep places. I should look away before I revealed these strange yearnings inside of me, but instead, I feasted on the sight of him.
The other soldier came up beside me, his body close, covering me with the waft of his musky scent, and my skin prickled. My senses tuned to high alert. Without turning to look at him, without touching him, I could feel the outline of his body inches from mine. I felt scrambled. This wasn’t me standing here, not the real me in solid outline, but some figment, because the real me had been drawn elsewhere. The moment held a surreal quality. My heart hammered through my chest. Was this fear? Or a richer, more desirable emotion?
The soldier drew a sword from the wall and tossed it across to Picard, who caught it by the hilt.
“I’ve never used a weapon this large.”
“What are you used to?” the soldier said.
“A dagger, mostly fists.”
The soldier returned to the wall and pulled a long knife with barbed hooks on the end. This he also tossed to Picard, but with such speed, Picard barely had enough time to drop the sword before the dagger embedded in his stomach. He caught the blade, then growled and flipped it to the hilt. Blood from the wound on his palm dripped to the stone floor.
I realized I was moving forward toward Picard when an arm hooked around my waist and pulled me back flush with him. The soldier standing behind me whispered in my ear, “He won’t thank you for interfering.”
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Good.”
I struggled away from him, but he kept hold of my hand and wound me back toward him, placing a finger over my lips. “You’ll distract him, and he won’t thank you for that either. Sargon will dice him.”
“Sargon?” Jesus. Maya had said he was commander-in-chief, which I took to mean the guy at the top, like, very top.
“Picard’s not trained to fight. He shouldn’t have to do this.”
“Is that so? Maybe you’d better watch as it’s your turn next, sweetheart.”
“Huh? You’re joking, right?”
“You donned the uniform, which means you’ve chosen to fight.”
“This was a disguise, that’s all.”
A grunt drew my attention away from my desperate argument that was going nowhere, to discover the two of them had already begun. Picard reacted with surprising agility and speed. He watched Sargon move with the same intense focus as he’d watched the fighters warming up not so long ago. At this moment, he reminded me of Seb, who’d mostly kept himself out of any brawling, but when he became involved, the fight became his world. I read in Picard’s eyes the analyzing, assessing and strategizing that unfolded in seconds within his mind. I knew this because it’s how Seb explained the process to me.
Despite Picard’s obvious skill, as the soldier beside me had promised, it was obvious Sargon was the better fighter. The speed with which he dove for Picard or dodged from his swiping blade was insane. The fight would’ve been over quicker if not for Sargon’s dallying. This was a test he wasn’t ready to end.
And when he did, it was with a lesson. A sharp lesson that grazed Picard’s side. The cut sliced from front to rear, but Picard refused to buckle, instead gritted his teeth as he stood his ground and glared at Sargon. Sargon relaxed his stance, then threw his own dagger at the wall. It embedded inches deep with a twang. He went to Picard, a hand outstretched. “I will see to it your wounds are attended to. Wear the scar with pride as it was your entry into the military.”
Those words were the strength Picard needed to forget about the pain of the wound. He straightened and looked Sargon in the eye. “Thank you, sir.”
“Fix yourself up and we’ll talk.”
I heard consideration in his voice. Coupled with a blunt edge to the bladed tone he’d used minutes before, he’d become another man. The steel he’d worn dissolved, if only for a second, as he acknowledged a man already with skill, but filled with the potential to be so much better.
In Picard’s eyes, I saw a man who’d touched his dreams. He glanced around him, his eyes landing on me, and blinked as if finding me for the first time.
“Let me escort Malachi back to Miss Tule,” he said.
Sargon’s back was to us. Without bothering to turn, he said, “She’s mine to deal with.”
“Sir, she wouldn’t be here if not for me.”
“I do not care why she is here.” Sargon turned and lasered into me with his glare. “She will learn her lesson like everyone else who enters the Arena.”
“But, sir, she is new to—”
“As a soldier, you will obey your commander.” He did not raise his voice, but the threat was as leaded as a shout.
Picard remained steadfast, turmoil clear in his expression. Picard didn’t know me. Some flirting and light banter did not make best friends or confidants. Yet he was about to argue with the commander-in-chief, his boss, risking his sudden promotion from street thug to the respectable position of officer in the military for some girl he’d picked up at the open-air baths.
I wasn’t about to let him jeopardize his dream. “It’s all right. You need attention.”
“Malachi, you don’t know—”
“Miss Tule looks after her own, remember?”
He grunted. “By then it may be too late.”
Not a good thing for him to say. He came toward me, but the soldier standing next to me blocked his way by slipping in front of me.
“Don’t get attached, soldier. There’s no time for anything else but your training.”
“I look after my responsibilities.”
“She’s not your responsibility.”
“She is when I’m the reason she’s here.”
I moved around him, not liking being shut in the dark. The soldier’s expression remained devoid of anger. Weird, because he had some scum from the street acting with attitude and disregarding orders. I glanced over to Sargon, who watched the exchange with interest.
I sighed. “Just go, Picard.” It was an attempt to sound fed up with his stubbornness. I was trying to protect the guy from a fallout. Didn’t he get that? The only other thing I could think was to walk away. I skirted around him and approached Sargon. “Let’s get this over with,” I said, using way more calm in my voice than I felt right now.
When I flicked a glance over my shoulder, I caught Picard walking out the chamber door.
Sargon approached me until he was less than a hand’s length away. “Brave words, little girl.”
“I’ve never used any sort of weapon before. Nor do I know how to use my fists. So this fight is going to be over before it begins.”
Sargon snorted a hard laugh and folded his arms across his chest. “What do you think, Ryker?”
Ryker sauntered over. “She’ll need the wind knocked out of her a few times before she has any sense.”
Sargon started on a circumference around me, as did Ryker, but in the other direction.
“Yes, but will she be any use to us?”
“She’s scrawny and weak,” Ryker said.
“With confidence that is likely less than skin deep,” Sargon said.
“Short attention span.”
“Clumsy.”
“Argumentative.”
Sargon sucked in a breath and shook his head. Finally, he stopped pacing around me. “So the question is, how do we teach her a lesson?”
Ryker stopped in front of me. “Why did you come here?”
“I didn’t. I knew nothing about the Arena until maybe two hours ago. Maya was the one to suggest we come and watch the fights.”
/> Ryker continued to pace. “Ah…so it’s blood she wants.”
Sargon appeared in front of me. “Then it’s blood she shall have.” He curled his fingers at Ryker, who read the silent command and pounded for the wall. He pulled down a blade, smaller than the one Sargon used to fight Picard, looking lethal nonetheless. He threw it at Sargon, who caught it and swiped it through the air in front of me. I jerked back with a small yelp. Sargon brought the blade up to his face and ran his thumb down the sharp edge. Blood marked the steel and pebbled on his finger. He sucked the wound while he looked at me. “There is nothing sharper than Invicneus steel, honed to molecules thick.”
He spun it hilt first and handed it to me. “Balance the weight in your hand.”
I took it from him, conscious of the warmth from his hand now embedded in the metal. I jiggled it in my hand, thinking this was what he wanted me to do.
“Strike me,” he said.
“As if.”
He egged me on with a crook of his finger.
“Is this a game to you?”
“Lessons are never a game to me.”
“What I am supposed to learn here? How to get hurt?”
“Do you not trust me?”
“I don’t know you. But you seem to like dirty games.”
“Babe, you don’t want to know how dirty I can be.”
We had veered off topic. And he was being frighteningly seductive. If this was Shacks, I would be rolling my eyes; Picard and I would be feeling a warmth spread down between my legs. But this guy was dangerous, raw and unpredictable. Sure, I didn’t know him, but there was an edge that had nothing to do with fun. And stupid me, ever attracted to danger, felt the draw like a dog to a bone.
I glanced at Ryker, registered the enjoyment on his face, then tried my luck at a surprise attack. I lunged, which ended up more like a trip. Sargon turned to the side, avoiding the blade, and caught my striking wrist in one hand. The other he wrapped around my waist and flushed me to him. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
I wrenched myself free, narrowing my eyes at him. The jerk was making fun of me. He opened his hand out to the side, welcoming a jab to his stomach, which I wasn’t going to fall for. Instead I ducked low, thrusting the blade at his thigh, only to be plucked off the ground and spun around by Ryker, who laughed as he set me down again, wobbling to find balance.
I reared on Ryker and he ducked and dodged like I was an old maid attempting to swat him with a wooden spoon. The blade was swiped from my hand as another snaked around me. Sargon’s hard body came up behind mine. “We’ve had our fun.” He ran his blade gently down the side of my cheek. “It’s time you left us.”
I was about to say something when he pressed his hand on my forehead, pinning my head against his chest. I heard the blade clank to the stone floor, then his other hand wrapped around my neck. Slowly he tilted my head sideways. My pulse fired as I stared into Ryker’s eyes, watched the smile play in his eyes, as a warm breath breezed along the side of my neck. There was nothing merry about his smile. Sinister or wicked were the only words that would fit. My muscles knotted and coiled as the panic flowed up through my body. But just as fast, a lethargy washed it away, washed my fight away. My vision tunneled and my mind turned to sponge. God, I was going to pass out, but soon enough I couldn’t find the energy to care.
Chapter 15
The white vehicle slowed through the turn and drew alongside the pavement. A man dressed in black exited the driver’s side and came around to open the passenger door. A slender ankle, finishing in a blue high-heeled sandal, appeared, followed by a slender thigh. Merriala, dressed in a scarlet blue robe, glided from the vehicle with panther grace. She rested a hand on her driver’s shoulder as she strode past and coupled it with a seductive smile. “Wait. I will not be staying.”
“As you wish.” He inclined his head.
She didn’t wait to hear his reply, continuing toward the dome glass lift. In less than a minute, the lift arrived and she stepped inside, spinning to face the outside so she would catch the view of the city as she rose to the top floor some fifty stories up. She breathed in deeply, then released the breath in one slow exhale. By the twentieth story, she had risen above most of the buildings in Fortescue. The view was magnificent, a view only for the elite.
Why Sargon refused to choose one of these apartments, instead cloistering himself in the old quarters, she couldn’t guess. Sure, only a select few could afford to live in the old quarters, but the buildings, while being tastefully restored, were no match for the grandeur that was the heights—a line of towers, skirting the perimeter of the old quarters. All the council members lived in one of these towers, so it was fitting that the commander-in-chief should also occupy some of this real estate.
His sentimentality she couldn’t understand. She’d been forced to live there once. When Sargon’s father himself had disregarded protocol and snubbed the council by choosing to reside farther in and Sargon had chosen the same. Despite her efforts, he’d grown to be like his father except for one vital difference. He’d managed to rank higher. His popularity amongst the military outshone that of dear old Dad, who had only ever been second-best.
The lift came to a halt and the doors slid wide open to opulence. Although she’d used all the skills she had acquired that would enable her to call this place home, she was still living elsewhere. Her apartment had its own kind of grandeur, one she could be proud of—but she wasn’t—thanks to her son’s position. The idea of offering him thanks turned rancid in her mind. Although his position gave her a better place to live than the streets, his actions condemned her forever to live outside the towers.
Always it came back to men. Her place in society was the result of the men who were and had been in her life. Which was fine for a woman when she was first finding her feet, but now she was established, rage followed the understanding she was still dependent upon a man for her contentment. After all these years, her vengeance was still keen. The fact she had lost the grandest prize to a common girl gave the vengeance longevity. Despite everything, the bitch survived, and worse, her children did too. The acid in her stomach was weak compared to the acid conjuring the thoughts in her brain.
Archard was busy on a call so she moved across to the bar and began fixing herself a drink. When finished, she moved over to one of the overly large daybeds and reclined, making sure her robe spread like a bird’s wings in flight.
When Archard finished his call, he turned, his face devoid of any welcome, and went to fix himself a drink. Either the call had not gone well or his was not overjoyed to see her.
“Why have you come here?”
“Darling, I wanted to see you.”
“Anyone could have seen you.”
“Oh, relax.” She let out a sigh as she spoke. “Sargon is not stupid.”
“He knows?”
“You’re not the only one with spies in every corner. Your belief in your superiority will be your undoing.”
“Your lack of faith in me will be yours.”
She held her retort. Merriala was a smart woman, smarter than any of the men in her life gave her credit for, some, to their detriment. And to be a smart woman you had to know when to show your claws and when to act like a kitten. Archard was not a soft man, not like Logan. She could only push him so far before she had to placate. The constant manipulation of a man’s emotions was her greatest joy, the only joy she’d ever known. The empty love of sexual delight, the only love she’d known. A woman with power had no use for the sentimentality of real love. That was a weakness she would never afflict upon herself.
She gave her best pout and moved to her hands and knees to crawl across the daybed.
“Come here, Archard.” She prowled toward him, a hint of seduction in her voice. He didn’t move, instead looked down at her. He was angry with her deliberate disobedience or her slight at his control. Whichever, she knew how to remedy that.
She sat up on her knees, moved them wide and patted the
bed between her legs. By now her robe had shifted apart at the front, revealing the creamy whiteness of her cleavage. His eyes lingered on her breasts.
She smiled inside and crooked her finger, summoning him. He broke and moved over to sit between her legs, leaning his back against her breasts. She curled around him, slipping a hand inside his robe, and played with the hair on his chest. Good looks were never Archard’s appeal. In his youth, his body was thick. Now his loose gut hung in layers. Any muscle he once held had migrated south, colliding with everything waiting down below and mounting to a band around the middle. But a man’s worth was not in looks alone. A lesson she’d learned early. Archard’s desire for power was only matched by her own. That in itself was his main attraction.
He sighed and leaned back farther into her. “You always were the best.”
He wouldn’t see her smile, which was good as the smile was for her alone.
“I’ve heard Rayce’s children have returned to the city.”
“Leave it alone, Merriala.” His voice held caution.
“I’m merely curious. That is all. I would like to see them.”
“You will not go near them. You mustn’t draw attention, which is what you will do if you see them.”
His tone stoked a white-hot anger. How dare he command me. She was not his courtesan. She had no need of a protector anymore. But he was right in this respect. Merriala was, however, a resourceful woman. She would find a way to see them without drawing attention to herself.
“Sargon must be wanting another courtesan.”
Her strokes faulted. The bastard goaded her.
“His needs are met elsewhere. There are other worries to entertain him than the lack of a woman in his bed.”
“Is that a hint of jealousy in your voice?”
