Page 7 of The Sun God’s Prize (Child of Scale and Fire #3)

He laughs and claps his hands when I slam down the glass, wiping my mouth with the back of one hand.

I don’t belch, only because my stomach is so empty that this is the first time it’s had anything but bile in it since last night.

But I can tell from the little show I put on for him that he’s delighted with my actions, and if he needs me to play things a certain way, I’m happy to do so.

Especially if it gains me my strength back in time to kill him and everyone on this ship.

Before he sells me, that is.

“I won’t bed you,” I say as he dollops a large serving of fragrant rice on my plate. I’ve had it before, though infrequently, and the scent makes my mouth water. “If that’s what you’re after.”

He winks at me, giggling again. “I wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he sighs. “You’re not my type.”

Maybe I shouldn’t relax around him, but I can’t help it. There’s only one thing to fear from him, if fear is the right word. If I convince him I’m willing, maybe I can even make this whole wretched thing worthwhile.

“Then what?” I dig into the food, the heavy creamed sauce flavored with more citrus and something buttery and yet spicy at the same time, this time delicious.

The heat of it makes me choke briefly, but after a sip of wine he pours, I eat more, and I’m quickly enamored of the rich, vibrant sauce, golden and warming my insides.

Even as I worry that I might regret it later, after so long without proper food.

Fuck it.

“I have plans for you,” Vunoshe says, sitting back, nibbling a piece of flat bread that he dips in more of the golden sauce. “If you behave, that is, I think I can make both of us very, very rich.”

“I’m a slave,” I say, pausing to tear off a piece of bread for myself. It’s warm, soft, and makes a perfect scoop for more sauce, the chunks of meat in it perfectly simmered into tenderness that melts in my mouth. “How can I get rich?”

His head tilts, smile fading. “Why, by winning your freedom, of course,” he says. “In the arena.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say. “But if you feed me and let me rest, I think we have a deal.”

Vunoshe’s grin returns.

I have no illusions about him, even as I eat as much as I can, groaning by the time I’m done, though I’m barely able to stuff in a fraction of what I normally would after a battle.

I’ve lost my capacity, but it’s just a matter of time and opportunity to get that back.

I’m anxious that he’s going to send me below again with the other slaves, unsure if I can bear even another moment below.

The thought of breathing that disgusting air, of that filth on my skin again, hits me like a blow to the gut, and I’m shaking again, this time with what feels like fear, when the meal ends.

Vunoshe reaches out and touches the back of my hand, his knowing expression telling me that he’s fully aware of my reaction.

And the power the threat of that place has over me.

It’s not the first time he’s seen it, likely uses this sort of mental torture to control those he enslaves.

I recognize it for what it is, stuff my reaction into the recesses of my mind, and accept this fear in me while vowing to use it to my advantage.

I’ve survived already. It’s just filth and darkness and revulsion. I’ve lived through worse.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “You’re staying with me from now on.” His wink is conspiratorial. “As long as you behave.”

Until he sells me, that is.

I let him see my relief and know it hits because it’s genuine, regardless of my conviction.

He lets me sleep on the floor of his room, a soft collar of padded leather around my neck keeping me pinned.

He’s removed my ankle cuff, the relief of its absence another celebration.

So much so that when I almost fight the collar, I’m able to resist. He’s gentle when he puts the new binding on me, and if it means I get to stay…

I grit my teeth and obey, the good dog at the foot of the masterre ’s bunk.

Until I’m not.

Soon.

I rise in the morning, eat as much of the cold dinner left over as I can manage, relieve myself in a small cupboard that allows me privacy, and emerge again feeling as much myself as I have in what feels like forever.

When Vunoshe leads me out onto the deck, a delicate chain tied theatrically to his waist linking my collar to him, I go with him without complaint.

I find it amusing that I tower over him by more than a foot in height, and I do nothing to hide it, relieved at the chance to fully extend my body, to lose my hunch from my days below, to swing my arms and test my strength again.

Still weak, yes, but better, so much better. I’ll be pushing myself moment to moment, as I was taught, and when I’m ready, I’ll know it.

As long as that time comes before he tries to sell me, this ship will be home to ghosts and blood, and I can’t wait to deliver my retribution.

For now, I sit on the cushion he provides me, Vunoshe seated in an expensive wooden chair that he’s clearly had bolted to the deck for just him, the king of this tiny, sail-driven kingdom.

Captain Lhanin approaches with a deep scowl, his straight, dark hair held back from his lean face with a gold band, my first daylight view of him adding little to my estimation.

Vunoshe has more power, that much is obvious, and no matter the captain’s stalking anger, he can barely raise his head enough to challenge the slave masterre .

“You dare attack one of my men,” Lhanin snarls. Well, he has some balls in those trousers, then, despite this imbalance that he’s found himself on the wrong side of.

Vunoshe looks away. Casually, with cruelty embedded on purpose and with deft delivery of such lack of attention. It’s a master class in personal destruction, and it’s a thing of wonder to behold.

Captain Lhanin doesn’t know what to do with it.

Or that he’s outclassed, utterly. But I know, I see it.

And so do his sailors who watch. They might not be aware of what it is they’re observing, but the visceral connection is of a kind that hits the very heart of the human need to belong.

And in that instant of utter disregard, Lhanin does not.

Might as well not even be standing there.

They’ve been fighting their little war of dominance for some time, I’m guessing, and I’ve just tipped the scales in the slave masterre ’s favor.

Vunoshe lets his victory linger like a stinging bite that will plague the captain long after today, before taking pity on the man. “You have another slave to sell now,” he says. “You should be grateful.”

This is about the sailor Vunoshe wounded and sent below, yes, but it’s also about the ship’s power dynamic, ultimately.

I’d forgotten all about what happened, and I can’t afford to be so blasé about things.

Yes, I’m fed and stronger and clean and safe—for now—but there is so much more I need to know.

Ashamed that I’ve failed to follow protocols and training, I pay attention now.

With no swords and no warhorse to consider, I have only myself to worry about.

But a good soldier gains intel where she can find it, and this moment is one that I will not squander.

Not when I can learn such techniques from a master— masterre , I remind myself of the term—like Vunoshe.

If only so I can find the means to turn it back on him when required.

I know when education might be useful. My mother taught me well.

Lhanin backs away, muttering, then spins and marches off, Vunoshe batting at an imaginary bug for a moment before his dark eyes meet mine. And he smiles, vicious, wicked, instantaneous. Before it’s gone as fast as it appeared.

He loves what he does. Well, one should, I suppose.

But now I’m afraid of him, too.

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