Page 11 of Blood King, Part I (Crowns #4)

Chapter eight

The evening gave little reprieve from the heat. Sweat slicked his skin despite the cold bath he’d just taken after returning from the arena. Cyrus’s mind was still on the fight earlier that day. On Alexander’s face. Or what he’d thought was Alexander’s face.

Every time he closed his eyes, the flashes of images returned.

It was a face he’d never seen as an adult, but he knew it was just like his own.

As children, Cyrus and his twin brother had been indistinguishable.

Probably not so much anymore. A man wore his past on his face, and his brother’s life had been very different from his own.

Alexander had a life of privilege, while Cyrus rotted away in this hell.

Cyrus could feel him, feel his power. All the time.

They were the same. He knew Alexander could feel him too.

Yet he never came. He never came to bring Cyrus home.

It was a weight in his chest, reminding him daily of those who’d abandoned him, forsaken him—those he’d loved most. His brother.

His father. But now his love for them was gone.

It had festered and died and rotted into the burning hatred that fueled his fight.

The hurt that nearly broke him was now what made him strong.

And if he ever broke free from this hell—

A noise outside caught his attention and drew him to the window.

Whoever had come was just around the corner, beyond his sight, but he heard them—horses, men.

Another purchase, maybe. More deliveries than usual had come over the past several days, some at odd hours of the night, and not all of them fighters. But whatever this was, it was louder.

A laugh carried through the air.

Who the fuck would be laughing?

Cyrus quickly pulled on his boots and strode out of his chamber, past the guard to see the commotion.

Three supply wagons were in the courtyard. Servants unloaded bags of rice and grain to the cellars. Portia, Visa, and three other women worked to carry meats and vegetables into the kitchen. Nothing unusual.

Then Cyrus spotted another wagon at the end, with Pyro standing beside it. It wasn’t a supply wagon—it was a purchase wagon—and Cyrus stiffened when he saw the men.

Bravat, the crowd-riling fighter, dropped down to the ground, followed by another dozen men. He wore a large grin as Pyro cuffed him on the shoulder.

Cyrus’s chest tightened. Pyro had bought Bravat? If there was one thing worse than having to fight against Bravat in the arena, it would be fighting with him on the same team.

“It’s a great risk to make a buy before a fight, and you cost me quite a fortune, but I knew it was a risk to take,” Pyro said with glee. “Now your win today is a win for House Pyro!”

Bravat and his men had prevailed in their fight after Cyrus’s team had finished earlier in the day, but Cyrus hardly considered it a win.

Bravat’s team had lost two men in the match, one of them a gold-tier fighter.

Not that a gold-tier fighter’s life was worth more—or maybe it was—but to have come so far, to have survived so much…

Cyrus’s stomach soured. Perhaps it was a blessing, for both Bravat’s dead men and Haddick, that they no longer had to face the hell that was House Pyro.

Cyrus’s eyes found Everan, who stood across the courtyard with Kord.

His face was heavy. The loss of Haddick and now the purchase of Bravat and his team—it was a difficult week for him too.

It wasn’t that the fighters of the house minded new purchases.

They welcomed them, even. Fighters didn’t have a choice; they were all forced into this life.

They were all at the mercy of the masters who bought and sold them like livestock, but fighters like Bravat put themselves before their brothers.

They couldn’t be trusted and were a liability.

As lead of House Pyro, Cyrus now had to deal with this liability.

Cyrus watched Bravat as he and his men looked around the courtyard with grins on their faces.

Yes, House Pyro was beautiful. It was the most lavish villa in Rael’s capital city of Carn, one of the most lavish villas in all of Rael, and Pyro’s fighters had almost any luxury.

Bravat and his men thought they’d reached the top of bloodsport success.

How quickly they’d learn…

“Show them to their rooms,” Pyro told a nearby servant. He waved his hand at Bravat and his men. “You fought well today. Take a woman, your pick. Rest. And tomorrow—another win!”

Bravat’s smile grew, and his eyes landed on Visa, who was just finishing helping Portia with the kitchen delivery. His smile widened. “Her.”

Visa froze.

Everan rocked off the post he’d been leaning against, and his body tightened. No one ever claimed Visa. Everyone knew she was Everan’s—all but Pyro, who’d use it against him if he did.

Pyro grunted with a nod, oblivious and uncaring.

Everan could say nothing. He hadn’t fought today; he had no right to a reward, and he couldn’t expose his heart or his marriage—it would mean death for them both.

But as Everan stepped forward with a dark fire of fight in his eyes, Cyrus worried that his friend wasn’t thinking of what he couldn’t or shouldn’t do.

“I’ve already claimed her,” Cyrus called out.

Everan’s head twisted toward him. Cyrus never asked for women, although there were a couple that occasionally came to his chamber. Pleasures of the flesh did help everyone forget everything, for a little while.

Bravat snorted his objection, and Pyro’s eyes narrowed.

“Do I not get first choice?” Cyrus challenged.

Not only was he the house lead, but he was Pyro’s top fighter with the most team wins in the history of the bloodsport.

With or without a kill, it was unlikely Pyro would refuse him, but he had gotten a kill, and a team win.

Bravat had suffered two losses, making Cyrus all the bolder.

Pyro looked at Bravat, then back at Cyrus. He frowned. “Fine, take the bitch,” he told Cyrus. Then he waved to the servant and said, “See Bravat gets another.”

Cyrus cut Bravat a warning eye before he crossed the courtyard and clasped Visa’s upper arm.

He pulled her roughly back toward the fighters’ side of the villa.

When they reached his chamber, he jerked her inside and kicked the door shut behind him.

It was a little early to be retiring for the evening, but it wasn’t like he’d had anything else planned.

Now alone, he released Visa. He hadn’t wanted to be rough with her, but his claim needed to be seen as a show of power, not him favoring her, which would make her a target for both Bravat and Pyro. “Did I hurt you?” he asked as he moved to the side table to pour himself a cup of water.

She shook her head. “Not really, no.”

He nodded and drained his cup.

She gave him an appreciative smile. “Thank you. You could have taken Cassia or Gemma and had a real reward. And I know they were looking forward to maybe spending time with you.”

Cassia and Gemma—he would have liked spending time with them too. But this was more important. For Everan. And for Visa.

Fuck the gods, it was hot. He stripped down to his braies and dropped onto the bed.

“I’m tired. And the best reward would be some sleep.

” Maybe an early evening wasn’t the worst thing.

He let out a long sigh as he shifted his arm up and over his head, covering his eyes with his forearm.

He’d left a strip of bed open for Visa. If he were a gentleman, he’d offer her the whole bed and sleep on the floor.

But he wasn’t a gentleman—he was a man with a fight in the morning, and he needed sleep.

And regardless of what he did or didn’t offer her, it would still be better than an evening with Bravat.

Quiet settled in the room, but not in his mind. His thoughts were on the day—on the fight, on Alexander. He shifted to his side, then again to his back. Frustration barbed him as he realized sleep wouldn’t come.

The bed dipped as Visa sat down on its edge. “Can I help you?” she asked softly.

He lifted his arm from over his eyes and looked at her.

She could help him. He shouldn’t let her—he’d told himself he wouldn’t do this again, at least not with Visa. This was Everan’s woman, not someone he should indulge to meet his own needs. But he desperately wanted to escape the torment of his mind, and slowly, he nodded.

Visa smiled and shifted closer to him.

He reached above the headboard to the bottom corner of the window, where the small tip of a nail protruded. He pricked his thumb against it, drawing blood, then he brought the swell to her forehead and gently pressed a crimson droplet to her skin. And he closed his eyes.

He let his blood transport him, and when he opened his eyes again, he stood in the middle of a sprawling field, with the grass as high as his hips.

Rolling hills spread as far as he could see, and as the sun set on the horizon, it lit the grass in gold.

A homestead sat in the distance. This had been Visa’s home before she’d been stolen away, but she kept its memory alive in her heart, and she was sharing it with him.

Cyrus dropped down and lay on his back, his arms outstretched above his head, looking up at the sky.

He couldn’t hear the grasses whisper as they swayed in the breeze around him—he could never hear while in someone’s memories.

But he could imagine, and he could enjoy it all the same.

These were the best of friends—those who gave him the quiet of their minds, those who helped him rest.

He felt Visa’s fingers run through his hair, helping him relax. The tension in his shoulders faded, and his body grew heavy.

And finally, in the field of high golden grass, sleep came.

Cyrus pulled on his leathers to the sounds of morning. When he’d woken, Visa had already gone; she was probably helping Portia with breakfast.