Page 6 of Bought by the Broken Beast

VOTOI

T he room Lyra gives us is little more than a closet, smelling of dust, old grain, and the faint, lingering scent of despair.

A single, grime-caked window looks out over a narrow alley, its view a testament to the dregs of the city.

A thin mattress stuffed with what feels like straw lies in one corner, a pathetic offering of comfort.

It is a fitting throne room for a fallen king.

I stand in the center of the space, the adrenaline from our flight through the city slowly draining away, leaving behind the familiar, hollow ache of my existence.

The throbbing in my shoulder, where the assassin’s hook tore through flesh and muscle, is a dull, rhythmic counterpoint to the frantic beating of my heart.

Pain is an old acquaintance. In the arena, it is a constant companion, a fire that burns away all thought until only the instinct to survive remains.

This pain is different. It is a reminder of my failure, of being cornered, of needing a human’s quick thinking to find an escape.

The human—Bella—slides the heavy bolt on the door, the sound echoing in the small space with a grim finality.

She leans against the wood for a moment, her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

She is small, so fragile. A creature of bone and soft flesh.

I have seen arena beasts with more physical presence.

And yet, she did not scream. She did not panic. She thought.

My contempt, the shield I have carried for so long, feels heavy and ill-fitting. It is a simple thing to despise weakness. But I am beginning to suspect she is not weak at all, merely… breakable. And the distinction is a dangerous one.

She pushes herself away from the door, her gaze sweeping the room with a scholar’s analytical precision before it lands on me. Her eyes, the color of rich earth, narrow, tracking a dark line of blood that trickles down my arm from the gash in my shoulder.

“You are injured,” she states, her voice a quiet, factual thing.

I glance at the wound as if noticing it for the first time. “It is nothing.”

A Vakkak warrior does not acknowledge pain. He endures it. He masters it. To speak of it means to give it power. My father taught me that lesson with the flat of a training blade when I was just a calf.

“It is not nothing,” she counters, her voice losing its detached quality and taking on a sharp, insistent edge. She gestures to the wound with her chin. “It will fester if it is not cleaned. Sit.”

The command is so unexpected, so audacious, that I can only stare at her. A slave, her throat still likely bearing the shadow of my own hand, is ordering me as if I were a disobedient hound. A harsh, guttural laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it.

“You forget your place, human.”

“My place is to ensure my investment does not die of a poisoned blade or a rotting wound before he has fulfilled his purpose,” she retorts, her gaze unwavering.

She unties the heavy satchel of coin and sets it on the floor, then begins rummaging through a smaller pouch at her waist. “I am a scribe. I am also responsible for maintaining my master’s—my former master’s —household accounts, which included the purchase of medical supplies.

I know how to treat a wound. Now, sit down. ”

She produces a small roll of clean linen, a vial of antiseptic herbs, and a waterskin.

She is not asking. She is proceeding as if my compliance is a foregone conclusion.

The sheer, unmitigated gall of it is both infuriating and…

intriguing. No one has spoken to me with such authority since my father.

I remain standing, a mountain of defiance. “I do not require your assistance.”

“And I do not require your permission,” she says, her voice dropping, becoming as sharp and pointed as a stiletto.

“You made a blood oath, Votoi Saru. You swore to protect me. You cannot do that if you are fevered and dying. Your pride is a luxury neither of us can afford. Do not make me remind you of the contract that I hold.”

The threat is veiled, but it is there. The contract. The leash. A reminder that for all my strength, she holds the legal claim to my life. My jaw tightens, the muscles bunching until they ache. To be beholden to anyone is a torment. To be beholden to a human is a unique and exquisite form of hell.

But she is right. Her logic is as clean and sharp as a freshly honed blade. A dead gladiator is of no use to her. And a dead gladiator cannot find his vengeance.

With a low growl of frustration that is equal parts rage and resignation, I stalk to the lone wooden stool in the corner and sit. The wood groans under my weight. I do not remove my torn tunic, an act of petty defiance.

She approaches me without hesitation, her movements economical and precise. She kneels before me, placing her meager supplies on the dusty floor. The scent of the antiseptic herbs—a sharp, clean smell of fylvek grass and rirzed—cuts through the stale air of the room.

“The tunic,” she says, voice soft again, all business.

I stare down at her, at the top of her head, at the dark hair pulled back so severely. I can end her with a single, casual blow. The thought is a dark whisper in the back of my mind, a remnant of the beast I have become in the arena. But the beast is silent now, watching, waiting.

With a final, derisive snort, I reach down, grab the hem of my tunic, and rip the tough fabric from my shoulder, exposing the wound.

It is a nasty gash, deep and oozing, the flesh around it already beginning to darken.

The assassin’s blade was coated with something, a slow-acting poison meant to cripple, then kill.

She does not flinch. She does not recoil at the sight of the blood or the mangled flesh. She simply uncorks the waterskin and begins to clean the wound, her touch impossibly gentle.

The first touch of the cool, wet linen against my fevered skin is a shock.

My entire body goes rigid. I am a creature of violence and brutality.

My skin is a landscape of scars, a testament to a life of battle and pain.

I have not known a gentle touch since my mother tended a childhood scrape, a lifetime ago.

Her fingers, small and stained with ink, are steady as they work, cleaning the edges of the gash with a meticulous care that is at odds with the grim surroundings.

I watch her, my contempt warring with a strange, unsettling sense of admiration.

She is terrified—I can see the faint tremor in her hands, the rigid set of her jaw—but she does not let her fear rule her.

She pushes it down, compartmentalizes it, and focuses on the task at hand.

It is a discipline I understand. It is the discipline of a warrior.

“You are not like the others,” I find myself saying, the words a low rumble in the quiet room.

Her gaze remains fixed on her work. “The other humans you have known?”

“They are soft. They cry. They cower.” I think of the screaming, simpering slaves in the houses of my Vakkak peers, the terrified chattel in the market. “You do not cower.”

She pauses, dipping the linen in the water again. “Cowering does not balance a ledger, and it does not keep you alive when you hold a secret that could burn down a kingdom. I learned long ago that the only thing I can rely on is my mind. My body is a cage. My mind is the key.”

Her words resonate with a truth that strikes me deeper than the assassin’s blade. I, too, am in a cage. A cage of shame, of lost honor. And my mind, my thirst for vengeance, is the only key I have left.

She finishes cleaning the wound and uncorks the vial of herbs. She sprinkles the fine, green powder into the gash. It stings, a clean, sharp fire that is a welcome change from the dull throb of the poison. I do not so much as flinch, a point of pride I cannot relinquish.

Her eyes flicker up to mine, acknowledging my stillness with a glimpse of something I cannot name. Respect?

She takes a fresh strip of linen and begins to bind the wound, her movements practiced and efficient.

Her proximity is… unsettling. I can smell the faint, clean scent of her skin beneath the dust and grime of our escape, a scent of parchment and soap.

Her hair, pulled back so tightly, reveals the delicate shell of her ear, the vulnerable line of her neck.

I am acutely aware of my own size, of the immense, brutal power I hold in my body, and of the incredible, terrifying control it is taking not to react to her closeness.

My entire world becomes this small, quiet room.

The gentle pressure of her hands on my arm.

The soft sound of her breathing. The intense focus in her dark, intelligent eyes.

The rage, the shame, the roaring beast in my soul—it all goes quiet, silenced by the steady, unassuming presence of this human woman.

She ties off the bandage, her work complete. Her hands linger on my arm for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

My gaze lifts from her hands to her face.

She is looking at me, her expression unreadable.

The distance between us is nothing, a breath of air.

The air crackles, thick with unspoken energy, with the raw, undeniable truth of our situation: a disgraced monster and a clever slave, bound together by a desperate, impossible pact.

In her eyes, I do not see fear. I see a reflection of my own fierce, burning will to survive.

The connection is a jolt, a spark of lightning in the desolate landscape of my soul. It is too much. It is a vulnerability I cannot afford, an intimacy I have really no right to feel.

I pull my arm away abruptly, the sudden movement making her flinch. The spell is broken. I stand, turning my back to her, putting the cold, hard distance of the room between us. The beast in my soul roars back to life, enraged by the moment of weakness.

“Your debt is paid for the wound,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, harsh with an emotion I cannot name.