I didn't bother asking why. In Fange City, when the crime lord wanted to see you, you went. The alternative was being shot with a blaster and dragged.
I insisted the guards wait outside before extracting myself carefully from Merrilee's sleeping form, trying not to wake her. She'd finally fallen into a deep sleep after hours of restlessness, and I wasn't about to disturb that. I pulled the thin blanket up over her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead—a gesture of affection that might have gotten me killed if anyone had seen it. I dressed quickly, my shirt and pants torn and blood-stained.
The ride through Fange City to Persico's compound took less than ten minutes. The city was already stirring—vendors setting up stalls, fighters heading to the training grounds, the usual predatory energy of a place where the strong survived and the weak became entertainment, or worse.
The throne room hit me like an opponents fist the moment I stepped through the entrance.
Heat first—oppressive, stifling heat radiating from the makeshift forge in the corner where Persico's metalworkers shaped weapons and reinforced his throne. The air was thick with it, pressing against my skin, making my ribs ache with every breath. Sweat broke out across my back, soaking into the fabric of my shirt.
Then the smell. Rust and blood and something rank—burned metal mixed with the reek of unwashed bodies and old violence. The scent of fear baked into the walls over years of interrogations and executions.
Persico's throne dominated the space like a monument to brutality. Massive slabs of scrap metal welded together into something that looked less like furniture and more like a weapon—jagged edges, exposed bolts, dark stains that might have been rust or might have been something worse. The whole construction groaned under Persico's weight as he shifted, metal scraping against metal in a sound that set my teeth on edge.
His dark pelt caught the light from the forge, making him look like he was carved from obsidian and malice. Those eyes—black and bottomless—tracked my approach with the kind of focus that promised violence.
I felt my jaw tighten. Kept my hands loose at my sides even though every instinct was telling me to reach for a weapon I didn't possess.
"Ahrick." His voice was a low rumble that I felt in my chest. Like standing too close to an explosion. "It's been a while since we've had a proper conversation."
"Persico." I kept my tone neutral. Professional. "Your men said you wanted to see me."
"I do." He gestured to a spot directly in front of his throne with one massive claw. "Come closer. Let me look at you."
I moved forward, each step measured and controlled. My hands wanted to curl into fists. I kept them open. Relaxed. The heat was worse here, radiating off the metal throne like it was alive.
Persico leaned forward, and the movement made the throne groan in protest. His head tilted, studying me. I could smell him now—something musky, mixed with the metallic tang of blood that never quite washed away.
"You look like shit," he said conversationally.
My jaw clenched. I forced it to relax. "The fights are hard on the body."
"The fights are hard on everyone" He settled back, and I heard metal creak. "But most fighters don't look like they're being held together by spite and determination."
I said nothing.
"You know what I remember?" Persico continued, his tone taking on a nostalgic quality that made my skin crawl. "I remember when you gave me this." He gestured to the scar that ran down the left side of his face—a jagged line that had never quite healed properly, the fur around it twisted and discolored. "That was, what, five years ago? Six?"
"Seven," I said. My voice came out flat.
"Seven." He nodded slowly, and I saw satisfaction flicker across his face. He was enjoying this. "You were different then. Colder. You didn't hesitate. Didn't question. Just did the job and moved on."
I met his gaze and said nothing.
"But you're different now." He leaned forward, close enough that I saw the way his pupils dilated as he studied me. "You're fighting in the pits. You're winning. You're accumulating damage that should have killed you by now. And you're not using your prize the way a normal fighter would."
There it was.
"The human female," Persico continued, his voice dropping into something softer. More dangerous. "You won her fair and square. She's yours. Twenty-four hours of possession, renewable with every fight you win. And yet, from what my people tell me, you're not exactly... enjoying the spoils of victory."
My silence was answer enough.
"No screaming from your quarters," Persico said, leaning back in his throne. His eyes never left mine. "No crying. No begging. My guards report that when they bring her to you, she walks out the next morning without a mark on her. Not a bruise. Not a scratch. Nothing."
He let that hang in the air between us.
"You know what that tells me, Ahrick?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a specimen under glass. "It tells me you're not using her at all. You're keeping her pristine. Untouched. Like some kind of fucking pet you're too soft to train properly."
I felt every muscle in my body coil tight, ready to spring. But I kept my breathing even. My expression neutral.
