In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (17 page)

Instead, the slave had tried to be tender with him. The beating and bruises would pay the fool back for that. He still bled from the mouth where Stratos had slapped him.

Now Stratos licked the wound, sucking it until it bruised as he fucked the slave in the ass.

Stratos’s chambers filled with the squelching sounds of his cock pushing into a tight, willing hole, the slide and grind of sweaty flesh, his balls smacking the slave’s ass cheeks, the two of them grunting like animals, rutting hard in a bid to come before the other.

“Take it,” Stratos growled angrily. And yet,
he
wanted to be taken. Taken, possessed, and then cared for. The way Alession had once promised him. The way Alession had once fucked him, coming so hard inside Stratos that he’d seen stars and then cleaning him up and kissing him tenderly.

Stratos wanted all that. He wanted it back. But here he was, having to pretend he was the one getting fucked, getting ravaged.

This slave did not know how easy he had it.

Grabbing the man’s shoulders to steady himself, Stratos pounded harder. “Take it, bitch-boy.”

“Yes, mas—”

Stratos’s sharp smack cut his words off. “I didn’t tell you to speak.” He jammed his cock in, stabbing the slave’s hole in his fury. Pressure built up inside his sac, his balls drawing up tight to his body. Shouting, he thrust hard, pushing in without regard to his partner’s pleasure. With a grunt, he came again, spurting inside the man, spilling his seed into the useless body of a slave.

It should be Alession. Him and me. Ruling each other. Ruling Arena.

Savagely, Stratos pulled out and stroked himself hard, jetting the last of his cum onto the slave’s belly. He grabbed the man by the hair and yanked him off the reclining couch onto his knees. “Kneel before me. Clean me up.”

Obediently the slave lapped at the quaestor’s softening shaft. Stratos closed his eyes and imagined Alession, the dark hair, those ice-blue eyes, Alession’s lips pursed around his cock.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

Soon, the Empress would be dead.

And then Alession and I will rule. As lovers.

Chapter Nine

TRAINING & TRUST

The Grand Melee

The biggest bout in Arena

A Spectacle of blood and death

Seen in no other place on Arden

—Jocasta Priassin, House Priassin, the Architects

Lucan hunched over the bench, working hard at his task. Half the rack already shone from his efforts, and in his lap, a gladius gleamed and glinted, its edge glistening wet from his care. He took a cloth and rubbed it dry.

Once, he’d hated the chore, when Hektor had first assigned him to clean and sharpen every sword in the Vulpinius training hall.

Hektor.
It had been two days since Lucan had seen the champion gladiator. He winced as the welts healing on his back reminded him of their lovemaking.
Love.
It wasn’t like the plowing Hektor gave him could even be called that.

And yet, that last look Hektor had given him… He’d been about to say something, to admit his love, perhaps? And then—

A searing pain stabbed deep into Lucan’s left pectoral. He ground his fingers into the flesh. The Ebon. Hektor had seen it.

And he had fled.

He’s seen it before.
Lucan could not shake that notion, the idea that the brand bore some other, darker significance. He would have put denarii to it if he’d had any. But what did that matter? Alession branded his gladiators. So what? They were all slaves, even Hektor.

But Lucan sensed there was something more to this, to the Ebon. He clenched his hand over it, cupping the brand as if proof against its searing hot pain. Shame blossomed across his cheeks.

Perhaps Hektor knew that Alession had used him.

Lucan rose and set the gladius in its place on the rack, took down the next one in line. Hektor shouldn’t care about that.
It was before we even met, by the Doomsayer’s Abyss!

And if anyone had cruelly used Lucan, it was Hektor.

Picking up the whetstone, Lucan began to burnish the notches from the weapon. He’d been so infatuated with the veteran gladiator. Hektor Actaeon, the great primus palus. Hektor had taken Lucan’s adoration and used him—used his mouth, his ass. The look on Hektor’s face before he’d fled had told more truth than any of his words.

He did not love Lucan. He had merely used him.

The Ebon blazed with Lucan’s rising anger, the blackness bleeding through his skin—a circle with two slashes like fangs digging into him. House Vulpinius. House of Wolves.

And yet no one in House Vulpinius asked anything of him beyond a good showing in the arena. Lucan had barely glimpsed Alession since that morning, and even Stratos…

Truth be told, Lucan disliked the man. Stratos’s smile was unctuous, too easy, his vim too slick and sly. Lucan saw the way Hektor looked at Stratos, like a man who found a snake coiled around his ankle.

Lucan ran his whetstone across the gladius, reveling in the sharp
shing
of stone on blade. This was simple. Sharpen, clean, polish. Oil the leather straps on his grandguard so he could move his arm and shoulder without encumbrance. He wanted only to think of what he needed in the arena.

The next Spectacle was coming up soon. He wanted to be ready.

Agony flared again across his chest, stabbing deep into his heart, bending him double. His breath went out, the gladius clattered to the floor, a bucket of water spilling. The flow raced across the wood and washed over sandaled feet.

A calloused hand reached down and took up the gladius. “Fine work, here.” The voice was smarmy-smooth, and Lucan cringed even before he met Stratos’s eyes.

“Thank you.” He inclined his head but did not reach for the weapon. Such an act could be seen as aggressive. A slave waited until the master offered.

A glint in his green eyes, Stratos offered the weapon blade first. Lucan met his gaze and held out a steady hand. Hektor would kill him for doing this, reaching for a weapon pointed at his chest.

But what did it matter? Stratos already controlled Lucan, already owned him. If the quaestor wanted to kill a slave, he need only give the word. Lucan closed his fingers carefully over the blade.

Stratos held the weapon a moment longer and then, with a dark chuckle, let Lucan ease it from his grip. A frisson of foreboding crawled down Lucan’s spine as Stratos deliberately shifted his hand so their fingers touched briefly. Stratos was studying him with that lean, hungry look.

Suddenly, Lucan felt exposed, his tunic pulled down to his waist, his loincloth wet and clinging to his thighs. He resisted the urge to cover himself.
Hektor should be here. He should be here!

But no, Hektor was two days’ absent. Cursing his mentor, Lucan bent to clean the water. He expected Stratos would beat him for spilling so much.

Stratos waved him off. “Let it be. It will dry on its own.” He paced back and forth before the rack, taking in the weapons. “You care for all these?”

Lucan nodded, then, realizing Stratos wasn’t looking at him, spoke. “Yes. It was Hektor’s idea.”

“Hektor’s idea.” Stratos repeated it as though it were somehow amusing. He touched his bottom lip with two fingers. A flash of poison-green eyes. “What do you know of the Grand Melee?”

The question startled Lucan. Everyone knew of the Grand Melee. Arena’s most prestigious Spectacle, it occurred once every three years. It was the only way a gladiator could earn his freedom. Aside from death. Only the most prestigious gladiators were chosen to compete—the
primus pali
, the champions, the men who had gained the notice of the odds-makers. Unnamed novices like Lucan had no chance. He risked a sidelong glance at Stratos. What game was the man playing?

Lucan felt stupid reciting what every person from the lowliest plebes to the highest Citizen in Arena knew, but he dared not anger Stratos. “The gladiator who wins is set free. He is crowned with laurels from the Empress herself. And at her behest, the Bronze Gates open wide, and he walks out a free man.” He sounded as though he were reciting. “His house is heaped in riches and laurels, and they are honored for the three years after.”

Stratos’s grin was smug. “And do you know who House Actaeon will be choosing as their champion?”

Of course Lucan knew. Like all the others, House Actaeon would send many fighters into the arena that day, but they could name only one as their champion.

Hektor Actaeon was the most seasoned, the most famous. Not a Spectacle went by where he was not given laurels and accolades. It was a risk—the Melee was sans mercy—but Hektor was likely enough to win.

Lucan’s heart constricted as he wondered what it would be like to watch from the sidelines as the man he loved vied for his freedom. Uncomfortably, he toed the stained stone where he’d spilled the water. What if Hektor lost? Worse. What if he won? Lucan hated himself for the guilt he felt, but the idea of Hektor winning his freedom, walking out the Bronze Gates…

Leaving me.

Strangling on fear and guilt, Lucan remembered Stratos was staring at him. He squirmed inside his skin. “I would imagine they would choose Hektor.”

Stratos’s face betrayed no expression as he nodded, his gaze shrewd on Lucan.

Lucan strove to keep his face blank as well. He was not as good at it as his master.

“And do you know who will be the champion of House Vulpinius?”

At once, Lucan thought of all the Wolves he knew. Agrippa, the myrmidon with his twin maces, his corded muscles, sleek and fast, ruthless. Kaius, master of net and trident. Nikos. With his golden bow, he never missed a shot.

“You.”

Lucan nearly choked on the very idea. “Me?”

It was a jest, the worst kind. Lucan had nowhere near the skill level needed to win in the Grand Melee. He might do fine at the beginning, when all fifty competitors were released. Houses tended to group together, and Lucan didn’t doubt his ability to fight house-against-house. Even against the free men and mercenaries, against the noxii criminals and Thranish assassins, Lucan felt he could hold his own, even Unnamed as he was.

But once those numbers dwindled… Him? Alone against the likes of Agrippa and Nikos and Kaius? Against Hektor Actaeon?

Lucan shuddered. His bowels threatened to turn to water. He needed to sit. He leaned against the rack, flinching when two swords clattered to the floor.

Stratos smiled, not unkindly, and went to pick them up. “Now,” he said gently, though his eyes were the dead eyes of a sand shark. “You have Hektor for the remainder of the month. He will see you trained.”

Pain and love washed over Lucan and formed a heady mixture in his gut, in his heart. He could not keep the stricken look from his face. He grabbed the rack for support. “Hektor?”

“Oh, dear,” Stratos said in a way that let Lucan know he was not in the least bit concerned. “Now I’ve done it. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Not in two days.” Lucan looked down at his hands and began to twist his cleaning rag into bits.

“Blessed Doomsayer in UnderRealm.” Stratos’s smile only grew wider. “That is a shame. Well, I can inquire about him at House Actaeon, and since we are paying him a stipend to train you, I shall have to see about that. I am surprised that he would abandon you.” Stratos’s gaze went to Lucan’s chest.

The Ebon had faded in these past days, seeming to wane in the face of Lucan’s pain and guilt. Even so, he could not help but touch it. Stratos chuckled darkly, and Lucan realized he was digging at the flesh. He stopped, though the burn only increased, leaving him more and more breathless the longer Stratos remained in the room.

“He didn’t abandon me.” Lucan’s voice sounded hollow even as he struggled for breath.

“Didn’t he?” Stratos said, and now he made no attempt to hide the malice dripping from his tone, from his gaze. He cornered Lucan, backing him against the racks while Lucan tried to maneuver around him. Putting hands on a member of the magistracy, even a quaestor, was a crime punishable by swift death in the arena.

Lucan would not risk it, though the burn in his chest intensified, lighting a fire beneath his flesh. He panted, certain his very skin would ignite. And yet, he dared not touch the man. If Stratos wanted, he could have Lucan bound and thrown to the lions. The Diversions were a cheap way to whet the bloodthirst of the masses. Lucan would not put it past this man. He raised his hands, not even daring to touch Stratos even as he moved in close.

The quaestor’s breath was fetid against Lucan’s cheek. “I can see why he favors you.”

“What?” Lucan squeaked out. There was no way Stratos could know that.

But then again Hektor had just fucked Lucan in the arena. Stratos could have witnessed every thrust, heard every groan. Lucan flushed. His ass was still sore, pleasantly so, and the burn in his belly would not be denied.

Stratos ran his hand through Lucan’s golden locks. “You are a very pretty boy.”

“Leave him be.”

The rich baritone brought such relief that Lucan nearly swooned.

Hektor leaned in the archway, his arms crossed, biceps bulging. A fine sheen of sweat from the day’s heat glistened on his chest, and his one pauldron made him appear even more broad-shouldered. He stepped into the chamber in a way that threatened Stratos bodily without even touching him. “Leave the boy alone, Stratos.”

The quaestor smiled, his sand-shark’s teeth gleaming. “Of course. I was simply telling him that you will likely carry the favor of your house in the Grand Melee.”

And that I’m also going to be chosen.
Try as he might, Lucan could not get the words out. He glanced at Stratos, but the man merely pressed two fingers to his heart and drew a circle.

And with that one warning gesture, Lucan’s throat closed up tight. He could not tell Hektor.

In three weeks I will have to fight you. To the death.

HEKTOR WITNESSED THE stricken look on Lucan’s face, and his heart ached. The thought of the boy being trapped in a room with Stratos made Hektor ill in spirit. He stared the quaestor down.

Now that Hektor’s own Ebon brand was expended, Stratos had reason to fear. If Hektor moved to kill him, there would be little Stratos could do.