Cleo
CLEO
Maxym thought he had won, but what I’ve ended up with is a supremely grumpy gladiator who is being forced to watch me as I fit out a number of other species with weapons.
He sits in the corner, wings draped around him like a cloak, growling occasionally and often for no apparent reason, as gladiator after gladiator troops through the armory and is able to pick a sword, dagger, trident or spear, depending on their preference.
Pulsars are for guards, not for gladiators.
This should not have been so much fun, but with Maxym here, it has suddenly become an absolute riot. I can almost forget my other problems, if it wasn’t for the fact I can still feel the warmth of his hand on my stomach and remember the look in his eyes.
He wants me, and he isn’t going to take no for an answer.
But now, of course, he has me. Albeit not in the way he was expecting. Maxym’s role is entirely “hands off,” and he knows he’s being watched by the captain.
So, there’s nothing he can do about it.
Which means I have an enormous winged gladiator at my beck and call. Hilarious.
There’s a brief lull in proceedings and I stretch, lifting my arms above my head, before sliding them down my back, which aches due to all the standing. Behind me, Maxym releases a strangled groan before I realize what I’m doing.
What I’m showing to him.
I check over my shoulder. He has one arm draped between his legs as he leans forward, eyes so hungry he could eat me up in one look.
“Do you need my assistance, little scrap?” he growls, voice filled with wickedness and velvet.
The door to the armory opens, and another huge Gryn marches through. Maxym is already halfway to him before I can even blink. Claws outstretched, he catches the other almost by surprise.
“Not you, Klynn,” Maxym snarls.
Klynn, a Gryn with wings darker than Maxym, and a half-healed injury running from his left eye to his jaw, glances over at me.
I brace myself, expecting this situation to go sideways very quickly. I grab hold of a sword, arming myself against the coming storm.
Klynn releases a snarl which could rend flesh from bone as Maxym extends his wings and snaps them shut with a noise akin to half a dozen blades being rattled.
The second gladiator leans to one side and locks eyes with me. Something which might be a smile creeps onto one side of his mouth and it’s quickly gone.
“Looks like you’ll have something to fight for after all, Maxym,” he rasps. “But I’m supposed to be given a weapon.”
“I’ll choose for you,” Maxym says, folding his arms over his broad chest.
He is the larger, by a considerable amount. Not that I’d want to come up against Klynn either. He’s still massive and muscular but with a wirier build and an evil glint to his eye.
“How can I trust you to get me the best?” he asks, clearly enjoying goading Maxym.
“You can’t. And you’ll get second best, as always.”
Klynn snorts. “A blade is a blade at the end of the nova-day,” he responds. “They all kill the same.”
He gives me another look, which earns him a blood-curdling growl from Maxym. For several long seconds, I think the fight is back on, but instead Klynn hitches up a wing and backs off.
“Pick me a good blade, brother,” he says as he turns to leave. “One which I can use to take off your head.”
With his passing violence, Klynn is gone.
“Is he always like that?” I ask of Maxym’s heaving back.
“Klynn is Klynn. He does what he does, and he’ll never take my head,” Maxym rasps.
One wing droops as he turns back to me. I check over the weapons laid out on my table.
“He was the last. I’m done for the day,” I say as I count everything up.
Maxym carefully moves beside me. I’m surrounded by the scent of his feathers, spicy and delicious. My stomach growls.
“Do you have…hunger?” Maxym asks, his wings slightly flared.
I am so embarrassed, so caught unawares, for a second I think he means something else entirely.
“Do you need to feed?” Maxym adds.
I blink rapidly as my brain processes what he said and what it actually means.
“Yes, I’m hungry. It’s been a long time since breakfast.” I select a sword and put it into the box of sheaths next to me which denotes who gets which weapon. “I’ll get something from Tibi when I get back.”
“Tibi?” Maxym growls her name.
“Retah’s housekeeper and cook. She’s a Cirmos,” I find myself explaining.
My huge gladiator visibly relaxes.
“You need sustenance now, not later,” he says.
“I’ll be fine,” I respond, clearing the remainder of the weapons into the unused box and then setting up the locks to ensure Retah’s stock is safe from Zarvu, or others who might be light-fingered.
An arm snakes around my waist, and I’m spun to face my wall of muscle and feathers. Without thinking, I put my hands against his warm skin, feeling the hardness beneath.
“I am here to protect you, even from yourself,” Maxym intones. “You will eat before you leave.” He says it as an order.
“I need to get back. I have to prepare for tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Retah, my boss—he’s waiting for me.”
“No. You will eat or I’m not doing my job.”
My shoulders slump. It doesn’t matter what I say or do. I got Maxym as my personal protection and now he’s in a perfect position to exploit it.
I think my victory has just turned into a defeat.