Wild Rider (Bad Boy Bikers Book 2)

by Lydia Pax

  His suspicion was that she had some money riding on him to lose. She was such a gambler, after all. The thought made him smile. If only she knew his plan!

  There was one upside to all of this, though. The heat in the kiss with Aeliana was real, not imagined. That was the best part of Chloe coming to stitch his leg.

  That knowledge carried through in every thrust he parried, every swing he forced into his sparring partners on the sands. The thrum of that simple fact pushed his legs forward for another lap around the yard with the Hell Log weighing him down. The memory of her lips, untainted and perfect, vibrated through him like a sword rapped against stone. At night, the air was cold but his thoughts, his flesh was all hot. Not hot enough—not hot with the thrill of her touch.

  That after so long, he could find affection like that again...

  His usual doubts—his terror, really—of Fortune souring on him was present. But not as present as the memory of their kiss.

  When the hooded form suddenly shadowed his portal, he thought it was Aeliana at first. But after a moment, his vision corrected—no. Too tall, and wearing too much perfume. Guards flanked her on either side, keeping their distance from the cell door.

  “Hello, Domina.”

  “Slave.” She pushed her hood down, revealing her beautiful, severe face. “I heard our prized Ursus was injured.” She gestured at his leg. “Show it to me.”

  “As you wish.”

  He pushed into the light and showed her the jagged, healing scar that formed. The flesh around the black stitches was thick and purple. The stitchwork was ugly, but it did the job. Another ugly scar on Caius’s form did not trouble him much. He felt it gave his thigh some character, even.

  “Who did this?”

  “I did, Domina. I did a little sewing work as a freedman.”

  She turned up her nose. “And where did you get the needle and thread?”

  He shrugged. “Iunius supplies every man here with whatever he should need.”

  “I did not authorize him to sell that to you.”

  “Do you authorize him to sell extra rations to Flamma? Or olive oil to a fighter who wants to braid his hair? Pen and paper for letters? He sells, and we buy.”

  Caius had already paid Iunius to keep the story going. He was well used to selling things he shouldn’t—and being revealed that he had. He was as much a foundation in the ludus as the stones in the walls. Porcia would do nothing to him without Rufus’s approval.

  She sniffed and turned. “This place is so foul. I am glad you’re here, at the least. By which I mean I am glad that you'll die soon. You're too old to fight, Caius. Didn't anyone tell you that? You're going to be positively slaughtered.”

  “Anything for the glory and honor of House Varinius, Domina.”

  Her expression was foul. Too foul, thought Caius, for a face otherwise so symmetrical. “I understand you’re to fight in the upcoming games.”

  “Yes, Domina.”

  “I expect you’ll die soon enough, then. Has-beens always do, in the arena.”

  She eyed her guards; at her word, they would do most anything to Caius. But there had to be some provocation first. She baited him, but Caius was no starving lion.

  “I thank you for the vote of confidence, Domina.”

  She did not like his blasé attitude. “You mark my words, slave. Your end comes, in the arena or otherwise. You were a fool to bring yourself back within my grasp.”

  A few cat calls rang out as she left the cell blocks, but they were few and far between. There were great consequences for dishonoring the Domina, both official and unofficial.

  Chapter 25

  With a week left before the games, Caius, Conall, and Lucius decided to enact their plan on Flamma.

  Conall, being the brains of the operation, took special care to do poorly in training that day. Caius slammed him to the ground more than five times in a row all due to Conall’s “faulty” footing.

  “Enough!” Murus roared at the smaller man. “You run. Now.”

  “Run?” Conall put his hands on his hips. “For how long?”

  If there was any question that was sure to enrage Murus, it was one that had to do with the severity of punishment.

  “How long? How long, novicius? You’ll run until your feet bleed.” Murus picked up and then tossed the Hell Log at Conall. It landed at his feet with a heavy thump. “Hold that up while you do. If it drops below shield height, I’ll brain you dead.”

  Caius knew the Hell Log's weight well. He had carried it for enough miles to cover the whole distance of Rome’s borders, it felt like. Conall was in for a hard trip.

  “Yes, Doctore.”

  Conall cast Caius a grim smile and a look—don’t make this for nothing.

  There was an herb, mudflower, that grew in a small green patch catty-cornered to the cellblocks and the training sands. It had special laxative properties.

  When the gladiators broke for lunch, Conall ran still, his pace keeping up. Caius was impressed—no doubt the lad had the endurance to be a gladiator, if not the size.

  With only a few days until the games, the mood in the small mess hall was serious. Little was said, largely because Murus was tense. He did not want his gladiators thinking lightly before entering the arena. Their failure was his failure.

  As was usual, Caius sat with Septus and Lucius. A few minutes into the quiet meal, Caius stood suddenly, shoving Septus on the shoulder.

  “You’re calling me a coward, Septus?”

  “What?” Septus's mouth was half-full. “I said nothing, Caius. Calm yourself.”

  “Did you all hear that?” Caius roared, throwing his arms about. “Septus called me a coward.” He shoved him again. Now Septus stood. “How long has it been since you’ve been trusted with a fight, old man?”

  It was clear Septus took offense. Caius struggled to hide his smile. Gladiators began to get up, crowding around the two. Some tried to calm them—they were old friends, after all. But others still cheered them on—any chance for blood was a good one.

  “When was the last time I had a fight?” Septus shook his head in disbelief. “You would well do to watch your words with me, Caius. Let’s not forget where you have been.”

  With the drama rising, the gladiators became more enthralled. Lucius, meanwhile, snuck around them and applied the mudflower to Flamma’s unattended food. From across the room, Caius saw him finish—and quickly took Septus in an embrace, laughing.

  “Did you see?” he asked the gathered gladiators. “Did you see his face?”

  Septus took a moment, surprise and confusion melting from his face and replaced with a tall, bearded smile.

  “You rotting shit.” He clapped Caius on the back. “You rotting...Gods.” He shook his head. “You really had me going.”

  For a moment, the mess hall filled with laughter. No one thought Caius had such a joke in him. And he didn’t, naturally—the idea had been Conall’s. They would have let Septus in on the plan, but he was always a bit straight-laced, and friends with Murus besides. They couldn’t run the risk of him doing the honorable thing and letting the air out from their plot.

  Murus shouted for them all to sit back down. The laughter was shut away like figs in a bag, and they resumed their meal.

  An hour later, they had returned to sparring, every man pairing up to prepare for their expected matches. As a thraex, Caius matched up against the new man, Perseus, an Egyptian who fought as a secutor. He was an arrogant sort, Perseus, as was the retarius Ajax who arrived with him. Most men didn't only go by their fighting names unless they'd already built a bit of a legend about themselves. Most of the legend of these two was built by their flapping mouths at mealtime. But, when they trained, they trained as hard as any man, and Perseus kept Caius hard on his toes.

  Conall ran still, hefting the Hell Log. Now that it was late in the afternoon, his pace began to slow, but still he trudged onward. Murus appeared to making good on his word.

  “Flamma,” Lucius called
out. “Would you spar with me? I have heard rumors of fighting a dimachaerus in the arena. I should like some preparation.”

  Flamma shrugged, casting a few laughs at his grisly friends.

  Being the elite of the ludus, the two had trained together before. There was no crowd gathering around them, but in the small breaks between attacking, defending, and resetting, the other gladiators spared their eyes over to the two. Caius joined them, watching carefully even as Perseus tried his honest best to knock him down.

  It took about five minutes before Flamma began to show his discomfort. He hunched over more, stayed more on guard. Normally, a man fighting with two swords was on the constant attack, being that the swords offered little defense.

  But he simply tried, again and again, to fend off Lucius’s insistent attacks.

  At the ten minute mark, Lucius landed Flamma in his net and—to simulate the kill—thrust his training pole directly into Flamma’s midsection. There was no dignity in Flamma’s sudden howls of discomfort. The cries scrambled across the sands, begging for release.

  “Let me out!” he demanded. “You’ve got to let me out, right now!”

  “All right, Flamma, take it easy.”

  Across the yard, Conall slowed down in his run to watch the proceedings. Despite all his sweat and exertion from the hours of hefting the log around, there was a great grin on his face.

  “Now! Now! Gods! Get me out now!”

  “I’m sorry, Flamma,” said Lucius, barely trying. “It’s a bit tangled.”

  “It’s not tangled, you shit. You’ve got to—err...”

  Finally Lucius let the net go. Flamma rushed back to the latrine, but it was too late. He tripped over his feet, great portly body turning awkwardly through the air, and when he rose, there was a great brown stain covering the back of his loin cloth.

  The entire regime of gladiators burst out laughing, Conall most of all.

  “Stop laughing! Stop it!”

  There was real, desperate fear in Flamma’s eyes, losing all the respect of the men in the ludus. Perhaps it wouldn’t be permanent, but in that moment, the loss was total. Despite everything, Caius actually felt a little bad for him.

  “I’ll make you pay.” Flamma’s eyes burned with rage. “I’ll make every one of you pay.”

  There was no way that Flamma could know of Caius’s role in the embarrassment, but a pit formed in his stomach. The easy, mirthful joy of the prank faded into cold realization. There would be retribution for this—and how or when it came would be a mystery until it exploded in the worst way.

  Chapter 26

  Evening fell at the ludus, and Aeliana’s heart was heavy.

  “Do you know this plant? I found it outside, near the wall. I thought it might be helpful.”

  Aeliana turned, heart racing immediately at the sound of Caius’s voice. She had been convinced that he hated her—and why wouldn’t he? He had been hurt, right there in front of her, and she had refused to help. What sort of man wouldn’t hate someone who did that to him?

  But as she turned, she saw a smile on his face. That same, winning, open smile that he always had. And was it her imagination, or was there a little less sadness behind it than usual?

  She looked at his hands. “That’s wheat, Caius.”

  “So you’re saying it’s useful, then? Oh, good.”

  Even as she tried not to, she smiled. But after a moment, she pointed back to the door. “Take it to the cook. I can’t do anything with wheat.”

  As much as she liked seeing him, the prospect of having him close was dangerous. What if Porcia came by, wanting more drugs to sell? What if one of the other slaves reported Caius had slipped in?

  And what if Caius took her in his arms again, and she melted like she had before? What if he kissed her as hard as he had last time, only this time it didn’t stop with a kiss?

  His body was nearly naked before her. It was hard to stop thinking of the hard shape of his pectorals, flexing and re-flexing as Caius stood.

  For a moment, she thought it was going to storm outside. Then she realized the thunder was just her heart beating.

  “How do you think it got here?” Caius asked. “Rufus doesn’t sell wheat.”

  “These things happen. It’s...” she waved a hand. “It’s nature. It happens.”

  “But how?”

  He was goading her. But the explanation was already on the tip of her tongue. “It’s kind of fascinating, actually. The seeds get picked up by a strong wind or a storm, or sometimes birds. And then they get dropped in new, strange places. Once I heard of a senator in Rome who had a poppy garden growing in his atrium. He suspected a storm blew something in through the square in the ceiling. It’s really interesting how...”

  During her explanation, Caius had stepped closer and closer. Now one hand wrapped around hers.

  “I like to hear you talk,” he said. “You should go on.”

  “I...” she stumbled her words now, lost in the deep dark pools of his eyes. Gods, but there was so much want there. “I should really enjoy speaking at length about any subject you may choose.”

  “I know.”

  “But...but. I don’t think that’s what you’re really after.”

  “I was right. You are intelligent.”

  His hand slipped to her hip. He pushed her back, bumping her against a shelf. Her hands came up to protest, but they landed on his chest. The muscles there were so hard.

  Gods, gods. Help her be strong!

  “Caius,” she breathed. “I find you remarkably attractive.”

  “Good.”

  He had her almost squashed against the surface of the shelf now. It would have been uncomfortable were his weight not so reassuring. How could anyone ever harm this man? He felt invincible. He felt like marble. Her legs felt made of wine, sweet and intoxicating, a pleasant warmth spreading from them to the rest of her body.

  “You yourself are remarkably lovely. I’ve heard them call you Faun. I don’t understand it. You are a creature, it is true. But one of surpassing loveliness.”

  She was going to kiss him, she decided. She would kiss him just the once and if he kept saying such nice things then really she would have no choice but to continue kissing him until he shut up. That was the only way she was going to get him to stop making her feel this way with all those glorious words—by kissing him as thoroughly as possible. Yes. A perfectly logical conclusion.

  It was decided. Her hand slipped up around his neck and she pulled her mouth up to his. She could feel the hardening of his want once again on her leg, substantial and insistent as it pressed ever forward.

  And could he feel her own heat, spreading out from her center, aching to know him inside of her?

  Footsteps outside broke the rare, beautiful moment. Caius, sensing her sudden fear, stepped back and leaned down on the table, as if being examined. Aeliana struggled not to moon over the thick muscles in his back and grabbed the nearest jar she could—anything that might look as if she administered medicine.

  But it was just a guard who passed, uninterested in their goings-on. Fighters visited the medicae every hour of the day for all sorts of reasons. Caius was no different.

  The break, though, was enough to return sanity to Aeliana. As Caius stepped back toward her, she held up a hand.

  “I like you very much, Caius. But Porcia does not. It appears, for whatever reason, that she hates you. And she is ready to do great harm to me if she knows that we are allied in any way. Even...” she sighed. “Even in a very pleasant way.”

  Caius nodded gently, his face slightly pained. “I understand. I only came here to let you know that I understand. I do not hold you in contempt. In fact, I apologize for my words and tone with you earlier.”

  “Your apology is very much accepted, Caius, and I hope you will accept mine. But for now, you must leave.”

  He did, and Aeliana had to bite her tongue to keep herself from calling him back. All she wanted to do was fall into that chest of his and pr
ess her face against him.

  Mere minutes later, Aeliana retreated to her small bed, holding herself tight and doing her best to preserve every last memory of his touch.

  Chapter 27

  In the afternoon of the next day, Aeliana ventured down to the city of Puteoli proper for more supplies for the games. They would be traveling to the arena in Capua for the first several days of the celebrations. Later in the month, there would be even more combat and death in the Puteoli Amphitheater that would require fighters from the Varinius ludus.

  It was, of course, all very much stupid in Aeliana’s mind, but still it was stupidity that required a medicae. And a medicae required supplies.

  She traveled, as she always did in the day, by herself. Even though she was a slave, she was allowed to travel on her own. Most Roman slaves did, unless they carried vast sums of money. The Romans kept immaculate records about who was free and who was not, and it was not as if Aeliana could escape somewhere outside of Rome. She wouldn't even know where to begin.

  The trip would be a short one, perhaps less than two hours to arrive at the market, buy what she would need, and return. In all, it was rather routine.

  And then, surprising Aeliana totally, her father appeared on the street before her. And it was not just random chance—in his eyes there was expectation. He had wanted to find her. There was little warmth on the face of Vitus Galerius Rutila—and indeed, as ever, he looked as though he had just swallowed something sour. Down the road, merchants called out their wares. A dog tied to a pole whimpered helplessly as two young boys teased it with meat tied to stick.

  “Father,” said Aeliana. “How nice it is to see you.”

  It truly wasn’t, but there was little use in telling him that. He pulled her out of the center of the bustling street under the awning of a dentist’s shop. He wore an immaculate white tunic with a gold-banded rope around his waist. The hairs of his head were wispy and fragile.