by Jez Morrow
Sovereign’s Gladiator
Jez Morrow
Devon rules a rich province of the mighty Raenthe Empire, but in his dreams the young Sovereign does not play the master in bed. Lord of everything, in the depths of the night, Devon just wants to surrender to a stronger power, a dominating man.
The star of all Devon’s wet dreams is the magnificent desert man, Xan, the champion gladiator. Devon was the one who sentenced Xan to die in the arena as an example to all his rebellious desert kind. Devon was also the one who pardoned Xan and gave him his freedom.
When Xan accompanies Devon as the Sovereign’s guardsman on a dangerous journey into the wild lands, it is raw passion, betrayal and impossible desire that reign over both men.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Sovereign’s Gladiator
ISBN 9781419930812
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Sovereign’s Gladiator Copyright © 2010 Jez Morrow
Edited by Briana St. James
Cover art by Dar Albert
Electronic book publication September 2010
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Sovereign’s Gladiator
Jez Morrow
Chapter One
The man’s back was turned as Devon entered the chamber. Even so, Devon knew him. Recognition grabbed him by the balls and squeezed hard.
The gladiator stood framed in the expansive window. Sunlight made his boldly sculpted musculature stand out in high relief. His barbarian hair was the color of a lion’s mane, but not so shaggy. His coarsely woven tunic top left his brawny arms bare. His sun-darkened skin bore white flecks of battle scars.
This was the gladiator Xandaras. The mighty Xan.
Devon feared his shock and lust were plain for all his attendants to see. He did not dare meet anyone’s gaze.
Devon had been in love with Xan from the moment the gladiator first stepped into the arena and killed the men who were meant to be his executioners.
Xan was the most beautiful man Devon had ever seen in his life—not that Devon’s life had been all that long. Devon, the Sovereign of the province of Shiliya, had seen only twenty-eight summers.
Devon was not sure whom he had expected to find here in his reception chamber, but it was not Xan.
The gladiator did not turn to face him. Perhaps the sheer number of attendants and the grandeur of this room told the gladiator that someone of great importance had entered behind him, not the sort of someone to slip a cowardly blade between anyone’s ribs from behind.
If not for defense, then the barbarian still should have turned around out of respect for his betters.
The barbarian chose not to.
Xan seemed to be watching Devon without looking at him.
Because the barbarian hadn’t actually seen Devon yet, Xan could not be accused of disrespect. But Xan knew who was back there. Devon could tell the gladiator knew exactly who was standing behind him.
Disrespect it was.
And Devon could not call the barbarian on it without sounding small. Devon could only command him, “Gladiator, face your Sovereign.”
Xan turned. Muscles flowed under his skin like living rock. Devon reeled inside. The gladiator was even more magnificent face on. Devon had never seen his rugged face this close, the uneven slope of his brows, his eyes an amazing color of desert sky. Blade scars nicked one eyebrow, one side of his nose and the side of his chin.
Devon forgot for a moment why he was here.
This man was the center of all Devon’s wet dreams. How many times had Devon taken his hand to himself and whispered the gladiator’s name in the night? Suddenly Xan was here, in the hard glorious flesh. Devon felt like he’d been caught in the act. He was not ready for this encounter.
Xan was one of the desert breed. This close, the savage’s scent came to Devon, exotic, distinct, intensely male. Devon felt the heat from Xan across the short space between them.
Devon breathed an inward oath in the high speech. He was trying to keep his imperial dignity while his imperial cock was about to lift the hem of his crimson tunic off his knees.
Devon paced a few brisk, agitated steps to the left and back again, his erection now up, where it might get camouflaged in one of the many vertical folds of rich fabric, instead of poking out and leveled like a lance for a charge.
The Sovereign’s wiry old regent, Marcus, hanging back at the doorway, spoke, sounding amused, “You seem surprised, ma dahn.”
“Well, I might,” said Devon tightly.
Three years ago, when the Supreme Reigna had added the wild lands to Devon’s province, the barbarian Xan had been brought here to the provincial capital in chains for judgment. Devon had judged. He had sentenced Xandaras to die in the arena as an example to all his rebellious kind.
An execution in the arena was still death, but it was an honorable end to a man’s life. Common criminals did not get a chance in the arena. Xan had never been common.
The honorable condemned was given a short sword as a chance to live. The chance was very small, because the executioner entered the ring better armed and every bit as keen to stay alive as the condemned man.
Xan had lived through that first match. And all the matches after that.
After Xan proved his worth, Devon was the one who pardoned the barbarian and gave him his freedom.
Once free, Xan stayed in the arena, as a gladiator now, champion on the side of the Imperium.
Xan stood now in Devon’s receiving chamber a free man.
Devon’s eyes strayed downward before he knew what he was doing. Xan’s fawnskin breeches fit snugly, showing the extraordinary interplay of sinew in Xan’s thighs and the bulging sex at his groin.
Devon flushed hot and cold.
A wide leather belt fit well around the gladiator’s taut waist. From it, a dagger sheath hung empty. Devon’s guards had not let Xan bring a blade into the Sovereign’s presence. Devon stared at the empty sheath as if that was what drew his gaze low.
Devon kept his face an outwardly impassive mask. Inwardly he was staggering with panic, thrown so close so suddenly to the object of his hottest fantasies.
I want him.
Devon was painfully conscious of all the people all around him. Painfully aware of his cock ring, constricting his swollen sex.
Devon wore a cock ring to help him keep his interest when he was with a woman. Sometimes he had trouble maintaining an erection. Here, now, he was wildly interested and thought the damn thing might kill him.
Devon looked up. He saw—or imagined he saw—a knowing glint in Xan’s heavy-lidd
ed eyes, an upturn at the edges of Xan’s seductive lips.
Xan’s gaze bordered on insolence.
Struck stupid with the shock of suddenly coming face-to-face with his midnight fantasy, Devon couldn’t talk. His mouth had gone sand dry.
It was for him to speak first. He needed to say something. His thoughts blanked out.
Then Xan bowed his head and dropped on bended knee, smooth and majestic as a kneeling lion. His tawny hair fell forward around his face.
And Devon remembered to breathe.
Devon found his voice. “Do not bow to me, gladiator. I am not a Prince. I am a Sovereign.”
Xan rose like a regal animal, shaking his back his sandy mane. He asked, “A Sovereign is less than a Prince?”
Oh gods, the voice. Devon had forgotten about his damn voice. In the arena, Xan’s voice was a savage roar. Here it was soft and low, a crumbling baritone, powerfully masculine, almost intimate. The sound stroked Devon’s sex.
Where was he? The words. Xan had said something. Devon needed to answer him.
The question was strange and Devon searched Xan’s extraordinary face for sarcasm. He found none.
“No,” Devon answered thickly. His own voice had dropped to rutting depths, but at least it sounded strong. And his breathing was coming more easily now. Xan’s bow had broken Devon’s strangling panic.
Devon ruled the province of Shiliya and this man was only a barbarian rebel who was free by Devon’s mercy and will.
Devon struggled to think how he must appear to this man. It was stupidly, urgently important. Devon always presented a regal, sensual image. The Raenthe were a sensual people as well as lordly. Devon tried to remember what he was wearing, as if he were on a tryst.
Devon collected his scattered wits. Remembered donning the red tunic with the bronze bosses, not the gold. That was good. Bronze was hard. Gold was soft.
He couldn’t feel the coronet on his head, but he was sure it was there. The coronet was a band of gold so thin Devon never felt it anymore, like the fine rings he always wore. He made fists to make sure his rings were on. His hair was thick, nearly black. A slight curl kept it off his shoulders. His eyes were midnight black, his lashes so thick he never lined his eyes with kohl.
He was well-built and tall—not tall next to Xan, but Devon was tall.
Devon turned languidly to his regent, ignoring Xan, and talked past the gladiator as if Xan were furniture. Devon was relieved to hear his own voice come out steady and rather cold. “Marcus, do you really mean to place a barbarian among my guards?”
Devon’s advisor and sometime regent, General Marcus, was an old veteran of many campaigns. Marcus had fought the barbarians alongside Devon’s father. A hatchet gash cratered one side of Marcus’ face from a long-ago campaign. Devon loved and trusted Marcus like he’d loved his father.
Lean, very lean, Marcus was all muscle and bone. Marcus’ skin appeared to be stretched over his skull-like face. His bold, craggy face was much-scarred. His eyes were black as Devon’s, but Marcus’ eyes were small and canny, with no lashes left to speak of. What was left of the hair on Marcus’ head was a scatter of dark strands on the shiny dome of his head.
Marcus said, “Ma dahn, this is the champion gladiator, Xandaras.”
In front of others, Marcus called his Sovereign respectfully ma dahn—my liege—in the high speech. In private, Marcus called him Devon. Sometimes Marcus slipped and called him Son. Devon didn’t mind.
Marcus had lost his own son in the war. Devon had lost his father.
“I do recognize him, Marcus,” Devon said dryly. “Is this wise?”
“I think it’s brilliant,” said Marcus, grinning, his sparse eyebrows arched high.
“To take a barbarian as my personal guard on a journey into the land of barbarians?” Devon asked. Marcus could not be serious.
The barbarian, for his part, said nothing in his own defense. Xan did not appear to mind Devon and Marcus ignoring him and discussing his merits across him as they would a slave on the auction block.
Normally it would be Marcus who accompanied the Sovereign on his journeys into unsettled lands as his first guardsman. This time, Devon needed Marcus to stay behind as his regent. Alas, there were not two Marcuses. So Devon had charged Marcus with selecting a suitable replacement for himself to serve as first guardsman.
Marcus brought Devon here to approve his choice.
Marcus had chosen Xan.
Devon asked lightly, “Do you want me dead, Marcus?”
Merry lines crinkled the taut skin at the sides of Marcus’ beady dark eyes. “Devon, I promised your father I would keep you un-dead for as long as I remain so. You’ve seen this man in combat. This is what I want at your side in the wild lands. As much as I have the power to insist, I insist you take him. Ma dahn.”
Devon made a friendly fist and tapped Marcus’ hard, hard shoulder. “I ought to throw you into the ring with that thing.”
Xan, that thing, gave no reaction. But Marcus drew himself up as straight as his battle-contorted frame would allow. Marcus had survived wounds that would have killed lesser men. The wounds hadn’t killed Marcus, but they left him crooked. “You assume I would come out the worse in combat with your gladiator?” Marcus asked, insulted.
Devon allowed, “I think you would last longer than his other opponents.”
“Oh, thank you for that faith, ma dahn,” said Marcus sardonically, then blithely admitted, “So do I. Take him.”
Take him?
The words had been spoken in innocence, but they echoed inside Devon’s head all wrong.
Take him? Oh no. Take me.
The very notion of the gladiator taking Devon dizzied him. And Devon was only half aware that Marcus was still talking, “You are going into the wild lands. And I can’t be with you. I’m trying to defend you the best I know how. It’s your choice if you refuse him, but he is the best there is and ma dahn should have him.”
Oh, I should, but that can’t ever happen.
Devon doubted a man like Xan had any use for other men. And a man in Devon’s position had no business submitting to other men. This was all wrong.
Devon should refuse the choice. He should dismiss the gladiator right now. He could not even think straight around him.
Yet he found he could not turn Xan away. He would sooner cut out his own fourth rib. Xan was here. And now that Xan was here, Devon feared he couldn’t breathe if Xan went away.
Marcus said, “He knows the tongue, ma dahn.”
Devon was hard put not to sputter at Marcus’ choice of words. Devon’s thoughts were taking every statement south. Every word took on the colors of sex.
Devon just bet Xan knew the tongue.
Marcus continued, “It would be a good thing to have a native speaker going into hostile territory.”
“Enough! Enough!” Devon surrendered. “I shall take him. I shall abide.”
He tried to sound reluctant.
On the eve of his departure, Devon strode along the second-level colonnade of his palace.
Off to his right, soaring arches presented a wide vista of the provincial capital, Calista City. Devon’s city was beautiful, as all things in the Raenthe Empire strived to be, with graceful public buildings of honey-colored stone and red-tiled roofs clustered around neat avenues, picturesque bridges spanning the river and airy villas built around garden courtyards planted with many trees.
On his left side, a marble railing guarded the drop to a ground-level training pit where soldiers often practiced their hand-to-hand skills against each other. Devon glanced down, glanced twice.
There, as if Devon had wished him into existence, was Xan, surrounded by Devon’s own personal guardsmen. The barbarian looked like a tolerant lion playing with a pack of boisterous cubs.
Xan wore little other than his fawnskin breeches and his wide leather dagger belt. A rawhide tie held back his leonine hair, though the tie was coming a bit loose now. Xan had a wooden shield strapped to his left for
earm and he wielded a blunt wooden sword with his right hand.
Devon’s men were attempting attacks on the gladiator with blunted weapons. Xan fended them off easily, a master among students. He slammed the twins, Milus and Silas, down to the dirt. The two landed on the flats of their backs with a single woof!
Xan dropped his sword and shield and lifted the twins up by the scruffs of their tunics, one in each hand, as if they weighed no more than puppies. The muscles in Xan’s arms stood out like wrought Dascan steel. Droplets of sweat gleamed in his tawny chest hair.
Xan’s eyes lifted, met Devon’s. Xan’s gaze drove straight through Devon’s gut, down to his groin. Devon’s cock rose.
The men in the pit followed Xan’s gaze upward. Upon seeing their Sovereign at the railing, they lowered their mock weapons and respectfully gave Devon all their attention.
Xan slowly lifted one mighty arm up toward the Sovereign. Xan’s hand turned, palm up, and he beckoned Devon down into the sparring ring.
Grins and gasps escaped from Devon’s guards. Milus and Silas moved a little wide of the barbarian in case the Sovereign was not amused.
Devon’s mouth burned. It was a dare.
Devon nodded curtly down, accepting the challenge. He pushed away from the railing and jogged down the stone steps that curved around the pit. His men cheered. Devon darted a glare at Xan, making sure the barbarian marked that sound.
Devon strode into the center of the pit.
Devon was tall; not the tallest man here, but even in legions of powerful men Devon stood out, with a stallion’s power and dignity and beauty.
His cock stood blatantly stiff under his tunic of shimmering indigo. That was all right this time. Men often became aroused going into combat. The men would suppose it was the challenge that excited him. A hard-on showed an aggressive spirit. It was good for them to see their leader ready and eager to take up the dare against the champion gladiator from the wild lands.
