I forced myself to breathe. To unclench my fists. To step back from the edge.
"So here's what's going to happen," Persico continued, oblivious to how close he'd come to dying. Or maybe not. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing. "You're going to start treating her like a prize. You're going to make it clear to everyone in Fange City that you're enjoying the benefits of winning her." His fangs gleamed. "Or I'm going to take her back."
"And give her to Hewes," I said. My voice was flat. Dead.
Persico's expression flickered—just for a moment, but it was enough. He didn't like that option. Which meant someone had forced it on him. Someone with more power than he had.
"That's not your concern," he said finally.
"It is if you're threatening to give her to him."
"I'm not threatening anything." Persico's voice went cold again. "I'm stating facts. Hewes wants her back. He's asking about her. Wants to know if she's being punished properly, if she's suffering the way she deserves to suffer for betraying him." He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to something obscene."He's got plans for her, Ahrick. Creative plans. The kind of plans that involve a lot of screaming."
Something shifted in Persico's face as he said it. A tightening around his eyes. A flicker of something that might have been disgust before his usual mask of cruel indifference slammed back into place.
Even he didn't like what Hewes had planned for her.
"So you win her," Persico continued. "You use her. You make it worth my while to let you keep her. Or she goes back to Hewes, and I doubt either of us wants to watch what he does to her."
"I understand," I said finally. The words came out rough. Strained. Like they'd been dragged over broken glass.
"Do you?" Persico's fangs showed again.
"I said I understand."
"Good." He waved one massive hand dismissively, and the gesture was so casual, so unconcerned, that it made the rage flare hotter. "Then we're done here. And Ahrick? Next time I see you, I want to see a fighter who knows how to use what he's won. Because if I don't, I'll give her to Hewes myself."
I turned and walked out of the throne room.
Every step was controlled. Measured. My hands were still clenched into fists, blood dripping from my palms where my claws had broken skin. My jaw was locked so tight I thought my teeth might crack.
I didn't trust myself to speak. Didn't trust myself to look back.
Because if I did, I'd go back in there and kill him.
And then Merrilee would die.
So I walked. One foot in front of the other. Through the heat and the stench and the oppressive weight of Persico's compound. Out into the relative coolness of Fange City's streets.
And with every step, I felt the rage burning hotter.
The prize room was a different world.
Smaller. Dimmer. The air cooler. No stench of blood and fear baked into every surface. Just the faint smell of recycled air and the lingering scent of Merrilee—something clean and sweet and utterly out of place in this hellhole.
The only space in Fange City where I could breathe without tasting violence.
I pushed through the door and stopped just inside, my hand gripping the handle hard enough that the metal groaned in protest.
Merrilee was sitting on the edge of the bed, her posture tense, her expression worried. She'd been waiting for me. Watching the door.
The moment she saw me, her whole body went still.
I watched her eyes track over me—cataloging the rigid set of my shoulders, the way I was holding myself like I might break if I moved wrong. Her breath caught. Just a small hitch, but I heard it in the quiet of the room.
"Ahrick?" Her voice was careful. Cautious.
I released the door handle and stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. The lock engaged with a soft click that sounded too loud in the silence.
