Page 7 of Bought by the Broken Beast

BELLA

T he silence Votoi leaves in his wake is a living thing, a heavy, crackling presence that fills every corner of the dusty room.

He stands with his back to me, a mountain of rigid muscle and simmering resentment, his rejection a wall as solid and unyielding as the one he shattered to save us.

My hand, the one that had just finished binding his wound, feels strangely empty, cold.

For a single, insane moment, there was something other than fear and desperation between us.

A connection. A flicker of understanding in the amber depths of his eyes.

Now, it’s gone, buried under an avalanche of Vakkak pride and ingrained contempt.

I am a fool. A naive, sentimental fool. He is a weapon, I remind myself, the words a bitter, silent chant. A tool I purchased to ensure my survival. Nothing more. To think otherwise is a weakness, a complication I cannot afford. Lyra was right.

The heavy bolt on the door scrapes back, and I flinch, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of the small dagger I’d managed to tuck into my boot before fleeing Kairen’s estate. It’s a pathetic weapon against a Minotaur, but it’s the only one that is truly mine.

Lyra enters, her scarred face a picture of grim neutrality.

She carries a wooden tray laden with a loaf of dark bread, a wedge of hard cheese, two bruised apples, and a pitcher of water.

It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.

She sets the tray on the floor with a dull thud, her gaze sweeping over me before landing on Votoi’s broad, unmoving back.

The neutrality in her expression vanishes, replaced by a storm of raw, unfiltered anger.

“So this is what has become of the great Votoi Saru,” she says in a dangerous snarl. “Hiding in a storage closet above my tavern, bleeding on my floor, with a human chit for a shield.”

Votoi turns slowly, his movements deliberate, controlled.

The air in the room becomes thick, heavy with a tension so profound it feels like I’m breathing water.

He and Lyra stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills.

There is a history here, a deep, tangled web of moments that I am not privy to.

They are two predators in a cage, and I am the fragile, unwanted thing caught between them.

“She is not my shield, Lyra,” Votoi’s voice is a growl of warning.

Lyra lets out a harsh, barking laugh. “No? Then what is she? Your master?” She spits the word like a curse, her eyes flashing. “I heard the talk from the market. A human bought your contract. A slave bought the Son of Saru. Have you fallen so far that you now answer to the leash of a lesser being?”

Every word is a deliberate blow, aimed to wound his pride, to cut him where he is most vulnerable.

I can see the muscles in his jaw bunch, the slow clenching and unclenching of his massive fists.

He is a storm held in check by a thread of iron will.

I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the thread to snap.

What are they to each other? Her anger is too personal, too intimate for a mere acquaintance.

It burns with the heat of betrayal. Were they lovers, once?

Comrades in arms? The questions swirl in my mind, a useless, dangerous distraction.

It is not my place to know. It is not my business. My business is survival.

“My reasons are my own,” Votoi says, his voice flat, impenetrable.

“Your reasons have brought Malacc’s dogs to my door!

” she snarls, taking a step forward, her fists planted on her hips.

“Vorlag’s men are crawling all over the district, asking questions, flashing coin.

Do you have any idea what you have done?

You, who lecture everyone on honor, have brought dishonor and danger to the one place that would still take you in! ”

“I did not ask for your help,” he grunts.

“No, you never do!” she throws her hands up in exasperation.

“You just appear, a walking catastrophe, expecting the rest of us to clean up the blood. It was the same with the trial, Votoi. You could have fought. You could have let your father, your friends, speak for you. But you chose the arena. You chose this… this spectacle of shame! You chose to throw your life away, and for what? For a pride that has left you with nothing but scars and a splintered horn!”

Her voice breaks on the last word, the raw anger finally cracking to reveal the deep, aching pain beneath.

The silence that unfolds is profound, heavy with the weight of her grief and his stoic, unyielding misery.

She loved him. Or loves him still. The realization is an icy stone in my gut.

I am an intruder here, a witness to a private agony that has been festering for years.

I make myself as small as possible, my back pressed against the wall, trying to fade into the dusty shadows. I focus on the tray of food, on the simple, life-sustaining reality of bread and water, anything to distract from the suffocating intimacy of their shared history.

Votoi does not respond. He simply stands there, absorbing her fury, her pain, as if it were his rightful punishment. He is a mountain, weathered by a storm only he can see.

Lyra lets out a long, shuddering breath, the fight draining out of her. She runs a hand over her face, the gesture one of profound weariness. “Gods, Votoi. What have you gotten yourself into now?”

He gestures to me with his head. “She uncovered a plot. Malacc. He moves against the Zusvak.”

Lyra’s head snaps toward me, her eyes narrowing with a fresh wave of suspicion. “The human?”

“She has proof,” he says. “A ledger. A shipping manifest.”

Lyra studies me, her gaze sharp, analytical. She is assessing my worth, my threat level. I meet her gaze, refusing to look away, to show the fear that is a cold, coiling serpent in my belly.

“Proof is a dangerous thing to own,” she says, her voice grim. “Especially when it belongs to a man like Malacc.” She turns her attention back to Votoi. “Your timing is either a curse or a blessing from the Lady of Light herself. There are whispers coming from the palace.”

A new kind of tension enters the room, sharp and cold. “What whispers?” Votoi asks, his voice taut.

Lyra leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest. “The Zusvak is ill. Gravely ill. The court physicians say it is a wasting sickness, a natural decline of age. But the servants… the Fiepakak who clean the chambers and serve the meals… they say otherwise. This leads to the postponement of the festival.” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, a sound that sends a chill down my spine.

“They say it is a poison. Slow. Subtle. A serpent’s kiss that drains the life from him, day by day. ”

The room seems to shrink, the air growing thin.

My carefully constructed plans, my desperate gamble for survival, it all feels so small, so naive.

This is not just a conspiracy to seize power.

It is an active assassination, a race against a poison that is already doing its work.

The ticking clock I’d imagined has become a time bomb, its fuse already lit and burning.

We don’t just have to expose Malacc; we have to do it before the King draws his last breath.

“If the Zusvak dies,” Votoi says, his voice a low, grim rumble, “the Zu Kus will be in chaos. Malacc, with his influence and his private guard, could seize the throne before the week is out.”

“He is already positioning his pieces,” Lyra confirms, her expression grim.

“He has been for months. Placing his allies in key positions, buying loyalties, silencing dissenters.” She pauses, her dark eyes locking onto Votoi’s, her expression hardening with the weight of her final, devastating piece of information.

“They say the King’s personal physician, the old Vakkak who served his father before him, died in his sleep a month ago. A sudden, unexpected passing. His replacement, hand-picked by the High Senate for his skill, is a Minotaur named Joric… whose sister, as it happens, is Lord Malacc’s new wife.”