by Viola Grace
He met her gaze then and leaned in for another kiss. This time, it was passionate and intense. His tongue came to her lips, and she let him in. The kiss became carnal. Sensation swept her body, warm and welcome. She rarely felt sexual, and when she did, there was no privacy. She never touched herself. She’d taken few lovers, and her relationship with the king must have afforded her some protection, as she’d never been forced. Years of celibacy crashed into her in that one moment and need gripped her like a vise.
He hadn’t been celibate, she knew that. She’d seen lovers enter and then leave. One fine lady had boasted of her conquest of the aloof gladiator. She’d only wanted him for the novelty of taking, and then discarded him. Had he been as lonely as she, these past seven years?
Except for the marks and ridges, he was like most men she’d seen. He had flat, oval nipples and a navel. His muscles were hard. His hands calloused and rough.
They felt like heaven on her skin.
* * * *
The name Verda suggested lush, green and verdant growth. The woman in his arms was not lush. Her golden skin was pale, shimmering slightly in the sun. But her eyes were vivid green, her hair shimmered like the autumn eppha that flourished on the surface of his planet. Up high in the Ariel frames of the sky farms, he used to look down, marveling at the miles and miles of grain that morphed from pale green to the hard, dark green of emeralds, finally mellowing down to gold. As summer’s heat waned, the grain was harvested... an entire planet’s worth, and then it was shipped to other worlds, and the entire cycle began again.
All the while, Brock, and his family, scrambled in the structures high in the sky, tending to delicate fruits that would eventually provide wine for the people of Frashee, or to be served as a delicacy for some distant feast. His feet had rarely touched the solid soil, and when he did go down, it was to sleep in his family’s home, to laugh with his parents and toil in the fields when the grain was ready to harvest.
His life had been ordinary.
His life had been splendid.
And his seven years of misery on this soggy cesspit of a planet just might be worth it if Verda’s plan for escape proved sound. He’d take her home. He’d wed her. Take her to the sky—but she could never live in the sky. Her skin was too fragile, and her legs—
He ran his hands down her arms, easily brushing coarse garments from her skin. She was strong, her hands were capable, though not roughened from work. Her shoulders were slender, and her breasts were small but beautiful. Her body tapered... from shoulder to narrow waist, and out to gently rounded hips. He pushed the loose trousers from her hips, sliding them down her legs. Unexpectedly, she went stiff and rigid, and he looked at her and remembered. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her full lips were suddenly tight. As though feeling his gaze on her face, she opened her eyes and met his gaze.
She nodded.
He sat up and gently bared her legs.
Her poor, ravaged legs. The fronts were almost unmarked, only a few shimmery scars marred the skin. The back though—he ran a hand down her calves, feeling ridges and indents of old wounds. Deep scars. Damage that undoubtedly ran down into tendons and ligaments. Damage designed to maim and cripple and cause endless pain.
Rage overtook lust, and Brock drew deep breaths, gathering the courage to turn her to her belly and fully view her legs. One foot drew up oddly, the result of poor healing. They’d cut her with knives, or some other blade. Some wounds had been shallow. Others had sliced to the bone. They’d been deliberately allowed to heal badly. Every one of those wounds could have been treated and could have healed without leaving marks.
Exhaling, he leaned down, placing gentle kisses on the worst of the marks. He blinked against tears. In the arena, he’d seen worse injuries... wounds that could easily kill. He’d seen fighters dragged back to the staging areas, their innards spilling, bones crushed. Sometimes they died. Often, they survived and fought again.
“This is why you are desperate to leave,” he said softly. “Even if the planet lives on, you must escape.” He lay on the floor beside her, and she rolled over to face him. She kissed him softly.
“There is a species of humanoid called the Vash. They live within the Summer Coalition. It’s said they can heal. I believe they can repair the damage.”
“I’ve heard of them,” he said. “They are a myth, Verda.” Her eyes lost their shine. Her gaze dropped, and he felt he’d been cut off from her soul. “And if they are real, how will you travel there? How will you pay for their services?”
She closed her eyes briefly and then looked at him steadily. “I don’t know. But I refuse to surrender to this, Brock. I will work any job. I will bear the pain. And I will prevail.”
As he looked at her, the light began to fade. It wasn’t cloud cover, though. It was dusk. But even in the waning light, her eyes were vivid, and her hair glowed. The marks on his skin began to vanish, and his skin was fading down to night levels. He’d almost forgotten how he looked in the brilliance of daylight. He’d almost forgotten who he was.
Yes, he was a fighter and an adventurer. But he was also a farmer. A son and a brother. His hands weren’t hard from the sword he fought with. They’d been toughened by hours using a hoe and a cutter. His muscles were iron-hard from hours in the Ariel frames. He’d built speed and agility from countless hours swinging and leaping from frame to frame. His steady nerves resulted from hours spent a mile above the ground, with no solid footing.
He leaned in and kissed her again, feeling at once exultant and ashamed. He’d do his best to free her, but in the end, he couldn’t take her home. There was no place for a woman like her on a planet like his. She couldn’t live with him in the sky.
The idea of letting her go... of her fading from his life—it was intolerable. Desperation swept over him, the knowledge that their time was finite. In the end, he’d lose her, either to death in the arena or to this failing planet. If they survived, she’d begin her quest, and he’d go home.
Home. The word unleashed an ache in his soul. Loneliness so profound he wanted to weep.
She was undressing him, slipping off his low boots, tugging his trousers down his legs. She was slender and pale, her breasts tipped by golden nipples, the hair at the juncture of her thighs was sparse and gilt. He ran a hand down her arm, it was smooth and slender, lacking the distinctive ridges a woman of his own species would bear.
She wrapped a hand around his member, stroking and fondling, drawing a gasp from him. She bent, her hair cascading over his thighs, and took him in her mouth, sucking and licking while she cupped his testicles. She serviced him, and he ached to touch her, to place his mouth on her, to taste and feel and invade every inch of her body.
As though sensing that he could bear no more, Verda rose, crawling up his body to cover him, to press her mouth to his as he guided his shaft into her body. She was warm and slick, she smiled against his mouth, then caught her breath as he pushed in. She rose, straddling him to ride, but Brock pulled her down, needing the feel of her body on his, her skin and his skin touching. He cupped her ass, guiding her, holding her tight. Their movement quickened, and seconds before he lost control, she moved faster, harder, grinding against this groin. He felt the flare of her body-heat and the clutch of her body as she came. She panted, her face inches from his. Her groan was guttural, and the sound alone was enough to make him lose control.
“Come, Brock. Let go.” Her voice was a harsh whisper. She was indistinct now, a silhouette in the darkness. She surrounded him. Commanded him. She drew the climax from him, leaving Brock in ecstatic bliss. He came then, his body bowing up into her, feet digging into the expensive rug, and he crushed their bodies close, his teeth bared, his cry on the cusp of a snarl. He fell back, still shuddering, his body spent, his mind hazy and soft.
With his seed slipping from her body, she drew away from him, rolling to his side. He drew her close, wrapping her tightly in his arms. Together, they lay like that, eyes wide open in the darkness.
“Look at that,” he murmured in her ear. Outside, the clouds still filled the sky, but they were illuminated from behind, as though a spotlight shone behind a curtain. The effect was hauntingly beautiful.
“The White Star.” The source of all the deadly forces shattering this planet. “So beautiful,” he said. “So damned.”
“It brings life to some. Takes it from others.” She lay her cheek against his chest. “That’s the nature of existence, is it not?”
It was indeed the nature of existence. Life and death. Chaos and order. It was beautiful, and it was dreadful.
Chapter Six
Three more fights. One more week.
The mercurial king hadn’t been happy with the changes to Brock’s contract. He wasn’t willing to permanently surrender his favorite whipping girl to a gladiator, so he’d torn up the contract. He’d sent another, which Brock refused to sign. In retaliation, Brock had been pulled from his apartments in the palace and sent to the barracks, with little more than the clothes he’d worn and a few items he’d hastily shoved into a bag. He didn’t know where Verda was, or if she’d been punished. Asking for ownership of her had been a risk. They’d both known it.
So, he was back into crisis mode. No coaching. Fights were added to his schedule, so he was sore and weary. Now he stood on the hard sands of the arena, facing a friend. Peri Stroop taught Brock much of what he now knew. He welded a set of double-edged blades, whereas Brock was unarmed.
Peri was his friend, but Brock had no illusions about their relationship. They’d trained together, partied together and fucked as a team, way back when Brock was full of youth and idiocy. Peri was older. Harder. Hungrier. Peri never hesitated to kill, where Brock had always spared lives when he could. He’d killed the Landaun female and found he lacked the stomach for death.
Peri knew damned well that Brock relied on strength and speed rather than technique. He’d been readying himself for this fight for years. Brock hadn’t. He’d never truly believed the time would come when he’d face his friend in a death match. He hadn’t prepared until Verda had forced him to do so.
They’d spent hours on a mat in his quarters, training in secret. In spite of her wounds, she moved with speed and cunning, able to deflect his attacks, using his weight and strength against him. She’d thrown him to the ground more than once. She’d used tiny movements to deliver flaring pain up and down his arms, paralyzing his hands. He rarely kicked at his opponents, but when he did so, she’d delivered blows to his inner thighs and behind his knees. He’d fallen like a tree. Now he knew what to do when faced with high kicks. She’d studied all the fighters and forced him to do the same, viewing hours of footage, graphing their strengths and weaknesses.
Together they trained, they made love, and they slept till he was called away to another fight. When he came home, he’d soothe the anxiety from her face, and she’d begin again. Drilling him. Sharing every skill she knew. And together, they made plans. And plans in case those ones failed.
And now, he stood yards from his friend, nervous. Regretful.
Frightened.
Peri smiled, idly swinging one of his blades, playing to the crowd, which roared in encouragement. For the first time ever, Brock knew the people massed in the stands were not on his side. He fisted his hands, grateful his sleeves covered his arms because adrenaline brought his tengs out in a primal display. He didn’t need Peri to see his alarm.
They both lowered their stances, grounding themselves before one attacked. Their gazes locked. The crowd went silent.
Before they could move, there was a commotion in the crowd. Brock didn’t look away from Peri, but from the edge of his vision, saw the royal colors flying in the plush boxed area kept reserved for King Jamis and his guests.
There was silence in the arena, taut and heavy with arrested violence. The crowd was falling to their knees for the king, some with reverence. Many more with anger and resentment on their faces. Across from him, Peri dropped to his knees in complete humility. The man was a consummate actor. He thought King Jamis to be an insane fool. But he lowered himself till his forehead touched the sand.
Slowly, Brock lowered himself to the hard floor, leaning on one fist, hoping his unruly hair covered the resentment on his face. There was another stirring in the arena, and Brock dared look up, shoving himself to his knees when he saw a figure tumble from the royal box to the floor of the arena.
Verda hit hard, and he saw blood running down her legs, bruises on her face. She lay still for a moment, then looked up, her face radiating fury and pain. King Jamis followed her down, landing lightly for a man his age. A pair of bodyguards bore down on Brock. He pushed up, ready to fight.
“You.” The king strode over and stopped before him. His boots gleamed, and his breeches were pristine and white. “You cheated.”
Brock didn’t hide the surprise he felt. “I... cheated?” His voice echoed around the arena. They were being broadcast.
“I don’t know how you knew about her, and her miserable history, but using a cripple as a fight trainer is probably not the brightest thing you’ve done.” He gestured, and one of the behemoths behind Jamis dragged Verda closer. You were denied a trainer as discipline. You got one of your own. You cheated.” He strutted, glancing up at the crowd. “Your hero is a cheat!” he shouted, and his voice echoed. Still, the crowd remained silent. All these years, Brock had been aware of the whispers of the king’s cruelty. He was rumored to be insane. Perhaps he was, but Jamis was in full control at this moment. He was playing the crowd like a musician strummed a lute.
He turned back to Brock. “I’m not sure how she convinced you to join her pitiful rebellion. Did she tell you she was a princess in disguise? A poor soul who was damaged out of royal spite?”
Jamis shook his head. “No, sadly, little Verda is merely the unwanted child of a long dead bed slave. A whore. No one wanted her, so she grew up... undisciplined. Running wild in the alleys and low places of the city. She eventually developed a nasty habit of thievery. So, she was caught, taken in hand and punished. I then gave her a place. She’s no one. Just a worthless slave.”
He laughed harshly. “Do you know the betting is against you tonight? It’s no secret that your friend has been studying your style, Brock. It’s no secret that he’s the better fighter. And that you’re weary, what with fighting almost every night this week. And of course, training on the other days. Hours and hours of training. Verda did her job well.”
Brock gritted his jaw and looked at Verda. She was pale as the parchment the contract had been written on. She didn’t speak, and one glance told him she was terrified. But she didn’t contradict the king. She let him speak uninterrupted. Just yards away, Peri stood, his hip cocked, his blades gathered in one hand. There was an expression of bemusement on his face as he watched the drama play out. Then a look of alarm. A swift tremor ran through the arena. It was subtle but sharp. Different. They all faltered for a moment, catching their balance.
Peri cleared his throat. “My king—” a lie since Peri was from a planet in a different galaxy. A democratic planet. Beyond his contract, he owed—and felt no allegiance to King Jamis. But Peri was good that way. He understood protocol. He understood money and fame. He pushed silky black hair from his face. “What do you wish of me?”
Jamis looked from Peri to Brock. He then looked at Verda, who’d awkwardly risen to her feet. The king’s smile was slow and cruel.
“As Verda is such a gifted fighter... skilled enough to train the best among us, perhaps she should take Brock Ahern’s place in the arena.”
Brock felt his heart go still. His mouth went dry.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. The crowd was now silent, leaning in, listening. This life and death drama was being broadcast. “That is cruel. You must not taunt her that way.”
He looked at Verda and knew... the king wasn’t taunting. He was serious. He looked at Peri, saw the man’s jaw flex. He’d gone slightly pale. But his grip tightened on his weapo
ns. He would do it. His eyes were tortured, his face grim. He knew he was to be executioner this day. The rules of the game had changed. Peri was now in it for his life, not for money and fame.
“Please, Peri. You call me friend, you have a heart. You must not.”
Peri looked at him, his grin looked like the rictus of a dead man. “I prefer to live.”
“If you take her life, I will take yours.” He said it simply. A promise. And almost before the words left his lips, the king’s bodyguards had him bound with heavy ropes. He was helpless.
“Peri, she is his niece. The daughter of his brother. He did that to her. He did that.” Brock pointed with his chin. He looked at the king, whose smile had faded.
“Brock, don’t!” Verda said. Her face was so still, her lips barely moved.
“He was afraid of a child, so he had her maimed.”
Peri faltered, glancing at Verda. The crowd was murmuring, a few voices raised in anger.
“She was the daughter of the king!” he shouted, making sure it echoed through the entire structure. “He was her regent, and he did this to her!”
Brock was struck from behind. He staggered but did not fall.
Liar.
Pretender!
Cheat!
The crowd’s anger wasn’t directed toward Brock.
“How dare you!” Jamis hissed. His face was red with fury. He stalked up to Brock and buried a fist in his gut. Brock doubled over, coughed and glared. He’d taken worse blows, but not while bound. His own fury spiked. He spat at the floor of the arena. Another blow, this time to the kidney. The bodyguards were far more efficient.
