In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal (2 page)

How much longer will I have to wait?

It was then Lucan realized he was not alone. Only a few feet away, swathed in shadow, stood a figure. A man, by the shape of his silhouette. His preternatural stillness, his very presence gave Lucan a nasty jolt. The door to the cell had not opened. How could the man have gained entry?

A shiver as of sinister fingers traced Lucan’s nape and crawled across his overheated flesh. Rumor crept into his mind, words whispered only in the darkest, most shadow-thrown corners of Arena.
Slaver-priests. Slavecraft—sorcery.

It was rumored House Vulpinius had continued their dark practices, that they stole into the Claim in the dim hours and spirited away the vanquished to turn them into mindless slaves. But those tales… They were just rumor. Dark legend. Nothing more.

Lucan strove to keep his voice from shaking. “Who’s there?”

The man moved, the shafts of sunlight cutting across him, revealing fair skin and hair so black it glinted with accents of deep blue. Smugness quirked his full lips. He wore a fine tunic, its thick and dark crimson stripes designating him a noble, but his chest was broad and his arms were bare, his biceps cut and corded.

This was not Lucan’s victor.

Yet, this man was beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous.

Lucan licked his lips. “You’re not Adrian Vulpinius.”

“No. But I am a noble of his house, and he does as I please.” The man’s deep baritone sent a thrill of desire stabbing into Lucan’s belly. His nipples hardened just at that silky voice. “He’s plowing some virgin boy from the House of Lucia.” The man’s smirk grew to a lascivious grin.

A tiny thread of panic wormed through Lucan. “What do you want of me, then?” He craned his neck to glance at the grates above. The novices were late this morning. They were never late. And the guards? Another glance at the cell door revealed only a dusty passage beyond his tiny barred window.

The man chuckled. “House Vulpinius has no shortage of denarii. I am sure the guards of the Claim are deep in their cups. Or the asses of the virgin boys of Lucia.”

Lucan stopped struggling. “I suppose House Lucia will have many fewer virgins this day,” he said sourly.

Another chuckle. The man began circling Lucan, appraising his naked and bruised flesh. “Certainly the great and golden Lucan of House Pineus is no virgin.”

“No. Nor am I great.” Lucan fought to keep still, to keep from staring.

“No.” The dark-haired man paced, sleek and powerful, predatory as one of the great black cats brought in from the far reaches for the
bestiarii
to battle. He leaned against the wall, putting his arms behind his head. The position made his biceps bulge. “But you could be. A true gladiator. A true retiarius. You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Lucan raked the man with his gaze. Beautiful, influential, and now the key to Lucan’s freedom? It seemed convenient and too fortuitous for his fate to have turned so easily. Still, he had to hold his eagerness back. “What slave wouldn’t want a chance to train as a gladiator, to win victory, glory, perhaps even a chance at freedom in the Grand Melee?” He cleared his throat before his voice could crack. “You must have a ploy in mind. And a price.”

“Of course.” A deep rumble rippled through the shadows about the man. The darkness swirled at his feet, and the threat of sorcery made Lucan recoil.

“I’ll not cheat.”

“Of course not.” The man waved that off as though it were absurd. “The Empress herself keeps a sorcerer on her staff to ensure the Spectacles are not rigged.” He leaned in, trailing strong fingers across Lucan’s shoulder. “Do you want to know how I know this?”

“Yes,” Lucan whispered, though whether he was agreeing to the question or the man’s arousing touch, he barely knew.

“I am that sorcerer.”

In a flash, the man was upon him. Lucan was slammed against the wall, his head cracking back, his chains shrieking. An ebon blade pressed to his throat. “Quiet now, slave, or I’ll end your life instead of putting it to good use.”

Teeth gritted, Lucan struggled in vain, sweat breaking over his bare chest. He was a slave, but he was certainly not
this
man’s slave. “I belong to House Pineus.”

But even as he said it, he knew it would offer him no shield against this man’s predations. House Pineus had once been a noble house, boasting the most prestigious gladiatorial school and turning out champion after champion in the Empress’s Grand Theatre. For five years running, the
primus palus
among all the gladiators had been a Pineus man. But that was before Etrius Pineus, the house patron, had bankrupted the gladiator stables by building his own secret arena—an illegal affair that saw most of his holdings seized and Etrius himself put to death among the other noxii in the Empress’s Theatre. Soon after, his house crumbled, his four sons arguing like petty fief-lords, unable to make even the most basic decision.

House Pineus was in its death throes. There would be no mercy for it, its patrons, or its slaves when the four brothers lost their last bronze
trien.

And the black-haired man knew it. He smiled, and the rumble rippled darkly through the shadows. “House Pineus wagered its last denarii on your victory. Now the house burns at the whim of your victor’s master.”

The man’s words jolted through Lucan, the scent of burning wood and flesh abruptly thick in his nostrils.

“House Vulpinius owns you now,” the man said, his voice sultry through his smirk. “You are my property, and I will bind you as I will.” He raised a hand, and sudden sorcery blazed there, a black fire in the dimness, as though darkling fireflies danced on his fingertips.

A gasp escaped Lucan. Slavecraft. A slaver-priest. House Vulpinius had long ago mastered the dark magicks, but rampant use, particularly for personal gain, was outlawed in Arena. So was poaching another house’s slave. He thought about crying for help, but this was the Claim. Though they were slaves, men-at-arms and gladiators had laws all their own. Anything could be bought and sold in the Ludus Magnii—fame, fortune, another man’s claiming.

And Lucan was just that.

“Do not worry, Lucan the great and golden. You will still be getting plowed this morn.” The man trailed one fingertip down Lucan’s chest, lightly scattering beads of sweat.

Lucan shivered, and a low moan escaped him, nearly lost in the rusty creak of the chains. “No.”

The man’s smile gleamed in the dimness. “I think you’ll find your body disagrees.”

Snapping back to himself, Lucan jerked away, only to fetch up against the wall to which he was chained.

The man pressed forward, blade and hand at Lucan’s throat, shoving him against the stone, the dagger tapping urgently against his jugular. “Calm yourself, slave. I only want a taste of you.”

The sound of his voice, lusty and lascivious, shuddered through Lucan. It had been weeks since he had last enjoyed a man’s touch, a man’s taste, a man’s mouth on his cock. But this was a member of House Vulpinius. Slavers, dark priests—they had been granted a pardon from the Empress, but everyone knew they still practiced their dark arts for their own gain, still enslaved, still tried to manipulate the winnings of the theatre to throw favor on their house.

And this was the Empress’s own man. Looking again at the fine robes, Lucan gave a jolt as he realized… Dark burgundy stripes, four of them.
The consul.
This man was second only to the Empress herself. It seemed she truly was blind, at least partially by choice.

“Who are you?” Lucan heard the tinge of fear in his tone and hated it, but the slaver-priests could steal a man’s will, imprison his soul, make him do anything.

“Alession.” A glint of icy blue eyes told Lucan he was right to fear this man— slaver, consul, changer of Lucan’s fate. “Alession of House Vulpinius. Consul to her Imperial Majesty.” He turned the knife slowly, digging the tip into Lucan’s chest. A trickle of blood slipped down his pectoral and over his muscular abdomen. The heat of it was sensual, smoldering. Lucan writhed at the end of his chains.

Slow as a dream, Alession bent his head, his mouth opening, hot breath steamy on Lucan’s skin as his tongue chased the red rivulet, licking the stain from Lucan’s flesh.

Lucan could not help the breathy sigh that escaped him, his starved skin shivering at the lustful touch. These past weeks without the touch of another man had rendered him weak, needy. His mind whirled. Alession was tonguing the crimson bead from his pectoral, kissing lower, his lips teasing the nipple erect.

His pale blue eyes eager and hungry, Alession watched Lucan’s muscular frame writhe on the hook. “When I’m through with you, you’ll beg to be my slave.”

Sudden anger swept through Lucan like a brushfire. Roaring, he surged forward, corded veins standing out in his neck and biceps; but the chains held, dragging him back against the wall.

Alession followed and forced a kiss upon him, crushing his mouth against Lucan’s, smothering his rage, forcing his tongue between Lucan’s lips.

Unable to pull away, chained like a beast, Lucan thought first of biting, but as Alession’s tongue delved in with rough force, a spike of pleasure pierced him through. He found himself returning the kiss, aggressive and passionate, his body straining at the fetters, his pelvis yearning forward.

No. I don’t want… I’d sooner…

The images of his trident spearing into Alession’s flesh turned carnal, visceral—the consul bent over, subservient before him, Lucan pounding hard into his shuddering hole, the slave become the master.

Chains rattled against the wall as Alession pulled away. Lucan pitched forward to recapture his mouth, a small groan escaping him as he was hauled back against the stone, the shame of his desire spreading scarlet over his face.

Alession watched him with predatory interest. “It’s very liberating, being a slave.” He poised the tip of the ebon dagger against Lucan’s chest. “You have no control over what happens.” The blade twisted, drawing a thin red line over Lucan’s left nipple. “You just do as you’re told”—circling the sensitive nub as it hardened—“no responsibility”—twisting, as if cutting an arcane pattern through the gladiator’s heart—“no guilt…no remorse…”

The knife came away. Alession ducked his dark head, and his greedy mouth closed down on the tender bud, his tongue lashing, his teeth further tormenting the hard areole.

An anguished moan escaped Lucan’s mouth. Again, he strained at his fetters, but this time, the fact that they held him secure, a slave to Alession’s lust, burned liquid heat through his belly and into his groin. His cock stirred, half-hard. The scald of shame on his cheeks grew hotter, but in the gloom, he no longer cared. Alession’s calloused hands were on his chest, massaging him even as he trailed hot, wet kisses over Lucan’s sculpted torso. It had been so long since the touch of another man’s body, hard against him…

Quickly, Alession peeled his rich tunic down and stood naked to the waist, muscles rippling under his pale skin. Lucan could not help but lust over the hard pectorals and biceps, could not help but think of the strength in those arms, enfolding him in a rough, manly embrace. The manacles about his wrists bit hard into the flesh as he strained forward.

Watching him, drinking in his torment, Alession let his hands fall to his own crotch, gently squeezing and massaging his hardening bulge, a rapacious smile rising to his lips. Stroking himself, he leaned in, pressing the length of his body against Lucan’s, his hand caught between them.

At once, Lucan bucked, driving his hips forward. Moaning, Alession writhed against him, rigid cock and questing hand massaging the gladiator’s shaft. His touch was pleasure, pure and scorching. Lucan briefly thought of spells, enchantments, a dozen different ways for Alession to beguile him. But grinding against the man’s hand, feeling himself painfully hard, he could not find cause to care. Instantly, almost painfully stiff, Lucan pumped hard and sweaty against Alession, pitching wildly in the chains, his pelvis slapping impotently into the slaver-consul’s hand.

Alession endured Lucan’s desperation, his unbridled attempts at rutting, and Lucan became shamefully aware he was groaning in his slaver’s ear. His frustration was nearing its peak, and Lucan realized his futile thrusting would not bring an end to his torment, yet he was unable to stop out of base, sordid lust.

Finally, Alession grabbed Lucan’s hips and forced him to stop. Lucan struggled against the man for a few moments before surrendering. A sheen of sweat covered his entire body, his thighs shaking, his wrists rubbed raw from straining at the manacles.

A wolflike smile rose to the slaver’s lips. Lucan shivered as Alession hungrily licked the droplets of sweat from his skin, sinking to his knees, his mouth open in lustful promise before Lucan’s bulging crotch. Moaning, Lucan thrust forward, his erection straining beneath his loin skirt.

Eagerly, Alession ran his tongue across his teeth, carnal heat blazing in his eyes. His hand stroked Lucan’s rigid knob, and Lucan moaned, his cock pulsing and throbbing under Alession’s talented fingers. Lucan imagined pushing it forward, the tip breaching Alession’s mouth, how his hot, slick throat would feel like a molten clasp.

Lucan’s head rolled back against the wall, his legs taut, balls aching, cock ready to explode. A glimpse of the slaver-consul kneeling before him, bare-chested, stroking him to maddening arousal drove a shuddering moan through him.

“Please…” It was out of him before he could stop it.

“There’s a good slave,” Alession soothed.

Indignant heat crawled up Lucan’s cheeks, then burst through his body as the slaver seized his loincloth and peeled it down his sweaty thighs.

Eyes dilated in lust, Alession seemed to enjoy the spectacle of his slave. Lucan knew how he must look—dangling by the wrists, his firm, strong body naked and streaked in sweat, his shaft achingly hard. Hanging helpless, Lucan groaned in an agony of pleasure, his body displayed for a slaver’s depraved entertainment.

Twisting in ruinous desire, he threw his head back, his blond hair sweaty, sticking to his back. Alession was urging closer, leaning in… Lucan held his breath, barely daring to hope, to feel the touch of brazen lips upon his rod. His cock throbbed painfully, the head dusky and glistening.