Page 53 of They Call Me Blue

I force myself to grab a thigh quarter from the buffet and bite down, determined to prevent a repeat of the training house, ignoring the way it squishes beneath my teeth.

Silver blood and fatty oils slick my lips and chin, but I do my best not to taste them.

It doesn’t matter what I want anymore, not when I’ve seen the consequences — no, the futility—of ignoring my hunger.

At least this way, I have some semblance of control of what and who I eat.

In the arena, a team of Bracers carries an unconscious fighter away on a stretcher, the female elf’s leg twisted at a wrong angle.

As they remove her from the ring, my father’s slaves enter the dusty field, spraying it with water hoses until the ground becomes a slurry, mucky mess.

More Bracers arrive, rolling out rock walls and makeshift structures, providing hideouts to make the grand finale more challenging.

They assemble them in the shape of a labyrinth, pulling out the rolling platforms once they’re in place.

And then Ryla enters the ring for the fourth and final time, all smiles.

Mud and dirt cover her underlings, but Ryla’s purple leather armor is spotless.

Atop her head sits a bronze diadem that glints in the light.

She straps an amplification mask to her face and addresses the chattering spectators, all watching in rapt attention, asses slid to the edges of their seats.

“Allow me to introduce to you our two finalists. I give you, Brawler, pet to the Bracer Trinth of Kariss.”

A metal gate rattles open at the far-right side of the arena, and my soon-to-be myrie steps through with a red sash around her waist. Dried silver blood and splotchy dark gray bruises coat almost every inch of her naked, muscular form.

The last rounds of the game are always the most barbaric.

No weapons. No armor. Single combatants.

The unwashed masses whistle and clap for her, waving betting slips high into the air.

Ryla lets them carry on for a small eternity before indicating to her Bracers to open the other gate. “And our challenger, Big Arms, pet to the Bracer Amreth of Vishi.”

On the opposite side of the arena, Big Arms emerges—a hulking male elf with biceps as large as Brawler’s face and an even larger ego. The elf is equally nude, equally battered, his red sash fluttering in the soft breeze.

“I think our Bracers are getting lazy with their names,” I remark.

Yaklan snorts. “You should have seen the preliminaries. Three Fingers was all the rage.”

I start to respond, but the roar of the crowd cuts me off.

They leap from their seats, fists pumping the air, throwing plushy biceps into the arena.

One of the plushies bounces off a stone wall and lands at Big Arms’s feet.

Bending, he picks it up and kisses it, then tosses it back into the stands.

A small purple boy catches the toy and hugs it tight to his lumpy chest, grinning wide.

I roll my eyes, knowing this kind of crowd work is beaten into elves—not something they’d ever willingly do.

They’re fucking delusional to think he likes them.

Still, Big Arms basks in the praise. He spins in a slow circle, blowing kisses to the people that enslaved him. It’s no wonder he’s a crowd favorite. Brawler, by comparison, is practically belligerent, glaring up at our balcony—at me—with nothing but contempt.

I much prefer the honesty.

“On my whistle,” Ryla says, “let the games begin.”

She and her lackeys exit the outskirts of the labyrinth, clearing the cold-iron gate entirely before she presses the clay death whistle to her lips and blows.

A shrill, pained screech silences the spectators.

Palpable tension fills the air—the purples unblinking, unmoving as they watch the fight, unaware that it was fixed by my father.

That they’re about to lose what little remains of their savings.

It’s hard to feel sorry for them.

Brawler peers through a crevice in the rock wall nearest her, trying to figure out how to approach Big Arms as the sun sinks lower along the horizon.

The first stars appear in the moss-green sky, and both their pupils dilate to saucers, giving them this otherworldly, creepy look that sets my teeth on edge.

I’m not sure how my cock’s supposed to stay hard staring into that.

There’s not enough ya’esen in the world.

I lean toward Yaklan, face sunk into my cup. “Do you think the breeding ceremony can be renegotiated?” I ask, voice low. “I’m already a Karesai. It’s not like Azerin can take it back.”

He quirks a brow. “Do you have someone else in mind?”

“Yes. No.” I shake my head. “It’s complicated.”

But it isn’t.

No one deserves to be imprisoned here. Forced to carry our spawn and service us on command.

With Brawler, there’s comfort in knowing I’ll only touch her once, and then she’ll never have to see me again.

With Arden, were she in this city, I’m not sure I’d have the strength to let her leave—to keep my fucking hands off her—whether she wanted it or not. And I don’t want to do that to her.

I don’t want to become my father. Or worse, Sorso.

I wish I’d never seen her fucking face. Things had been so much simpler when I thought of her as that tiny, pathetic thing I released all those years ago.

Now everything is messy. “Maybe Brawler will lose and Big Arms will kill her.” I take a long swig of the bitter liquid, draining it, savoring the way it burns my throat. “Then I won’t have to breed anyone.”

Yaklan says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The man knows as well as I that Azerin never loses.

Brawler and Big Arms press their backs to the walls as they approach one another, slinking through the muddy corridors.

Ears twitching, Brawler moves twice as fast as the brute with a feline grace that reminds me of Prowler.

By comparison, Big Arms all but stomps, feet splattering muck with every step. Closer and closer they get.

The sun sinks lower, then disappears. Like every other elgrew in the stands, I open my pit organs and cast the world into darkness.

The walls and ground turn a blurry dark gray—barely warmer than the air temperature, barely lighter than the black of the night sky.

It’s a sharp contrast to the thousands of flashing auras in the stadium.

With great strain, I narrow the scope of my vision to our two combatants, whose silhouettes shimmer with gray light.

Their bodies are brightest at the groins, armpits, and heads, where the gray brightens to a hot white.

Every vein in their bodies light up too, pulsing, throbbing, exposing their weak points.

It doesn’t matter that my belly’s full or that I’m surrounded by putrid meats.

The sight of those beautiful fucking veins has my stomach rumbling.

Of their own accord, my pit organs flare wider, venom pooling in the back of my throat.

I lick my lips and clench my throne’s armrests so tight my fingers ache.

Gods, how I miss the hunt, especially at night. Watching those veins flair and gush as I sink my teeth inside them.

Brawler rounds a corner, and I see the bite mark on her collarbone—chartreuse and bright against her blurry silhouette. A burgundy one flares at the back of Big Arms’s thigh. If I tried hard enough, I could find the elgrew in the stands whose auras match them.

As Big Arms nears the middle of the labyrinth, Brawler ducks, her body disappearing behind a rock wall.

A moment passes. Two. And then Big Arms walks by her hiding spot.

She kicks out, foot slamming into the backs of his knees, and he crumples to the ground.

Black water mists the air as he splats into a mud puddle.

“Yes!” someone in the crowd screams. “Kill him!”

More join in the sentiment.

Brawler climbs atop him, straddling his naked form, and they grapple for dominance.

Dark gray fingers slip and slide across lighter gray silhouettes.

Fists fly and heat rises at the epicenter of each hit until their bodies are a blur of splotchy bright white.

It’s hard to tell where one torso begins and another ends.

The brute leans forward, and for half a second their heads merge into one. He’s whispering something in her ear.

My pit organs snap shut and color returns to the world.

An elgrew wouldn’t be able to see them in this darkness or hear them above the cheering crowd.

But I’m not an elgrew anymore. I’m a Karesai.

Concentrating on his lips, I watch the way they move and my mind supplies me with sound.

It’s not quite lipreading, not quite hearing either, but something between the two.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “Let me win.” Brawler shakes her head, and he rams his skull into hers, knocking her onto her back. In seconds, Big Arms pins her beneath his hulking frame. “Yield.”

My father jolts from his throne, pit organs flaring. This isn’t part of the practiced choreography. “What the fuck is he doing?”

Winning, I hope.

Silver blood shimmers through the dirt-caked layers of their flesh. Brawler claws and kicks at Big Arms, but he might as well be a statue for as much as it moves him. “Yield,” he hisses.

“Your father is going to kill Ryla,” Yaklan says, lips curled in amusement. He sips from his chalice, legs crossed as he leans back in his throne—clearly unbothered.

“Looks like the Karesai of Bracers can’t control her fighters after all,” I add.

Azerin glares at both of us. “There are worse myries I could pick for you, Lyrick. And as for you, Yaklan, you have as much money invested in this match as I do.”

Yaklan’s smile falters. But there’s no need.