His was always the last fight of the night—the marquee bout that kept the crowd in the stands, betting moredrachasthan they could afford and ordering more greasy food and over-priced drinks. Ronin got a cut of the night’s earnings, so he didn’t complain about being kept in the reeking, blood-soaked arena well past midnight.
Ronin stalked into the locker room, then shucked off his sparring pants and unwrapped his fists.
Blood came away on his fingertips—his or the hyena’s, he couldn’t tell. Likely a mixture of both, based on the scents. Ned had been dragged to the healing wing. Ronin’s opponents usually were. Beating the shit out of them ensured he’d have the shower to himself afterwards, at least for as long as it took the staff to counteract the healing suppressant the Fae fighters consumed.
He stepped into the stall, and scalding water erupted from the faucet, streaming over his muscled shoulders as he dipped his head, palms resting against the tiles.
Casting a glow upon the steam, ice-blue tattoos swirled across his arms and torso—a cage of the Empire’s making.
Three centuries ago, during the Empire’s war with the humans, Ronin’s white wolf had slaughtered over two thousand mortal soldiers on the battlefields of Aethalia, delivering the Fae a decisive victory. The feat earned him a new nickname—the Butcher—and he was celebrated across the territories. Cheered at parties. Showered with gifts. Revered as a continental war hero. Emperor Leonin Erabis himself had even commissioned a grand portrait of Ronin’s wolf for the palace in Delos.
Ronin Matakos had been on top of the world.
For a time.
Everything had changed during the Accord negotiations, when the Emperor yielded to some very assertive human voices who weren’t too keen on letting the most notorious killer of their kind go unchecked. A political concession and nothing more; the humans were headed for the colonies and Ronin was staying on the continent, so how much of a threat could he really pose? Not to mention, the war was over.
Though Ronin could manage small displays—thickening his fangs, elongating his fingernails into claws, even popping out his white tail—the tattoos prevented him from making a full transformation.
At the time, Ronin had been furious about the sanction. Why should he be punished by the very Empire whose orders he’d been following? For becoming the weaponthey’dtrained him to become? Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d killed innocents on those fields. Those human soldiers had been just as capable of savagery, demonstrated by the Fae casualties piling up in the months prior.
But three hundred years later, he only nurtured a quiet rage over his caging. Had begrudgingly resigned himself to his fate.
His wolf, however, had not. The caging of a Beastrunner’s animal was a very specific type of torture. With no outlet or means of release, it was a daily occurrence that the beast howled and snarled and ripped against Ronin’s chest, begging to be unleashed.
Over the years, there were only three things that Ronin had ever found to calm the creature: fighting, fucking, and Delirium, Trophonios’s glorious invention. The elixir, brewed from human memories, held Ronin and many of his fellow Fae within its addictive thrall.
Ronin could feel his wolf within him now, curled against his heart, bathing in the afterglow of the night’s violence.
Footsteps clacked against the tiled floor and Ronin whipped his head around, droplets splattering the wall.
Dimi, a Deathstalker female who worked for the fight promoter Sorreno, plunked a hefty sack ofdrachason top of the stall’s ledge.
“Your cut for the night.” Dimi’s forked tongue slithered across her lips as she dragged her serpent’s eyes up Ronin’s glistening, naked body. “And the boss has a message for you.”
Ronin shook the water from his hair, then wrapped a towel around his waist.
“Tell Sorreno I’m fucking done for the night.” He ran a hand through his wet, white strands. A calculated move to pop his biceps.
“But not done fucking, we hope.” Dimi’s pupils dilated.
They’d enjoyed each other before. In this very locker room, in fact. She’d been a spry and enthusiastic partner, but he had a taste for fresh meat tonight—the gorgeous new Windrider waitress at the Frosted Crystal who’d been flirting with him for the past week. And was about to earn a very generous tip.
“Anyway, we didn’t meanthatboss,” Dimi said. “We meant the big boss. Skanisse.”
Ronin reigned in his shock. The High Councilor of the Northern Territories had been at the fight tonight?
Dimi handed Ronin a slip of paper. “Told us to give this to your hot ass.”
Ronin snickered. “He didn’t sayhot.”
“Added that bit ourselves.” She winked. “You seem tense, Butcher. You want to burn off some energy before you go?” Her head tilted back as Ronin towered over her.
“You wanna play with me again, Dimi?”
Her eyes slid shut and a quivering breath parted her lips. “Please.”
HighGods, Ronin could never resist it when they begged. Wielding his savage beauty was one of the few weapons left in his arsenal.
