Page 5 of Bought by the Broken Beast
BELLA
T he darkness of the sewer tunnel is absolute, a suffocating blanket of stench and silence broken only by the drip of unseen water and Votoi’s heavy, guiding presence in front of me.
My shoulder aches where he grabbed me, a phantom pressure that matches the bruising on my throat.
I stumble on the slick, uneven stones, my hand flying out to brace against the slimy wall.
A shudder wracks my body. I am a creature of ink and parchment, of quiet rooms and orderly numbers.
This subterranean filth is a violation of my very nature.
Votoi stops, and I nearly collide with the wall of his back.
He is utterly still, a statue carved from shadow.
I can hear nothing but the frantic thumping of my own heart.
Then, a low grunt from him. A scraping sound of stone against stone.
A sliver of dusty, grey light appears, and with a final, groaning heave, he pushes a heavy sewer grate aside.
“Up,” his voice is a low, rough rumble, devoid of emotion. “Quickly.”
He hoists himself out with an ease that belies his size, then reaches back down. His massive hand engulfs mine, the calloused skin rough against my own. He pulls, and I feel weightless, lifted from the suffocating darkness and deposited onto the grimy cobblestones of another alley.
I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the dim light of the pre-dawn city.
The air here is different from the manicured gardens of the merchant district.
It’s thick with the smells of sweat, spilled ale, roasting meat, and the metallic tang of the nearby arena.
We are in the city’s gut, the working-class district of the Fiepakak.
The buildings are timber and plaster, leaning against each other for support, their upper stories looming over the narrow streets.
This is a world away from Kairen’s white marble.
Votoi is already moving, his posture different here.
In the upper city, he was a caged beast. Here, he moves with a grim, purposeful stride, a predator back in his hunting grounds.
Minotaurs, broad-shouldered and unadorned with the finery of the upper classes, pass us, their gazes lingering on me.
I am an anomaly. A human, small and pale, trailing in the wake of a disgraced Vakkak.
I pull my cloak tighter, trying to shrink, to become the invisible scribe once more, but it’s impossible. Here, my otherness is a beacon.
He leads me to a corner tavern. The sign above the door is a crudely painted axe splitting a barrel, the name ‘The Bitter Draught’ carved into the weathered wood.
The sound from within is a low murmur of voices, punctuated by the occasional gruff laugh.
It smells of damp wood and stale beer. This is not a place a slave, or a Vakkak noble, would ever enter.
Votoi pushes the heavy door open and steps inside. The tavern goes silent.
Every eye turns to us. The patrons are all Fiepakak—laborers, off-duty guards, grizzled arena hands with scarred knuckles and cynical eyes.
They see Votoi, and a ripple of recognition, of old respect and fresh pity, moves through the room.
They see his splintered horn, the symbol of his shame, and then their eyes fall on me, and the mood shifts. Suspicion. Hostility.
A figure detaches itself from the shadows behind the bar.
A female Minotaur, her fur the color of a stormy sky, a long, faded scar cutting across one of her heavy brows.
She is not as tall as Votoi, but she carries herself with an authority that makes her seem just as large.
She wipes the bar with a rag, her movements slow, deliberate, her dark eyes missing nothing.
“Look what the sewer washed in,” she says, her voice sounding like a smoky drawl. It’s not a welcome. It’s an accusation.
Votoi walks to the bar, stopping a few feet from her. I remain by the door, feeling like a field mouse in a den of lions. The power dynamic here is a language I don’t speak, a complex tapestry of history and caste I can only guess at.
“Lyra,” Votoi’s voice is rough, rumbling. “I need a room.”
The female, Lyra, lets out a short, humorless laugh. “A room? You think this is a Vakkak pleasure house? Or have you forgotten what you are?” She tosses the rag onto the counter, her gaze flicking to me, sharp and dismissive. “And what is this ? Your new pet?”
The insult is a physical sting. My cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and anger.
“She is with me,” Votoi states, his voice flat, offering no further explanation. The protective stance is subtle, a slight shift of his weight that puts him more squarely between me and the tavern owner, but I see it. And I know Lyra does, too.
Her eyes narrow, studying him. There is a deep, unspoken history between them, a current of shared memories that I can feel crackling in the air.
Her gaze softens for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something that might have once been affection, before hardening again into a mask of weary cynicism.
“You look like hell, Votoi,” she says, her voice losing some of its edge.
“The world is hell, Lyra,” he replies, the words steeped in a bitterness so profound it makes my own fear feel shallow.
She sighs, a heavy, world-weary sound, and gestures with her head toward a dark staircase in the back of the room. “The old storage room above the kitchens is empty. It’s not fit for a Vakkak, but I suppose it’ll do for what’s left of one.”
Relief, so potent it almost makes my knees buckle, washes through me. Sanctuary.
“My thanks,” Votoi says, the words sounding stiff, unused.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Lyra warns, her sharp gaze finding me again. She looks me up and down, her expression a mixture of pity and contempt. “Whatever trouble you’re in, the human is at the heart of it. They always are. A weakness. A complication.”
“She is not a weakness. We’re allies,” Votoi says, and the quiet finality in his tone silences the room once more. It is the first time he has defended me, and the shock of it is a jolt to my system. He is not just my weapon. He is my ally. The thought is as terrifying as it is exhilarating.
Lyra holds his gaze for a long moment, then gives a slow, reluctant nod. She seems to be mourning the warrior he once was, the friend she once knew. Her loyalty, it seems, is to a ghost.
“Fine,” she concedes, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. “Get upstairs. Stay out of sight. I’ll bring up some food and water when I can.” She leans forward, her voice a grim warning meant for him, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Malacc’s influence runs deep, even down here in the dirt. His men have been busy in the past few hours, I assume he’s the reason why you’re here. You see, Macacc has coin, and coin buys eyes and ears everywhere. You brought a storm to my door, Vakkak. See that it doesn’t tear the roof off.”