Chapter 25
Aryana
Zarathos didn’t reappear until nightfall the next evening.
Aryana was improving, and she’d unwrapped most of her burns.
Her hair, luckily, had gone mostly unscathed.
Vampire rejuvenation was quick when fresh human blood flowed in her veins.
The sad part was that the only dress from Zarathos’s collection she’d agreed to wear was ruined.
She’d spent an hour debating between two options: the sleeveless red satin gown with a slit that reached nearly to her waist, or the backless blue one that fell to her knees. In the end, she’d chosen the red. She left her thigh wrapped, hiding the mate mark beneath.
How she wished to be rid of it, but Bloodbonds weren’t so easily broken. Only death could sever the bond.
Zarathos entered the room, staring at her. He shifted. “How are you feeling?” he asked almost gently.
She looked out the window and shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He ran a clawed hand over his horns and sucked in a sharp breath. “Aryana, about what I said earlier about you being a means to an end—”
“Let’s not do this.” She stood up, taking in his shimmering blackish-silver scaled armor that folded over itself, stretching across his muscular chest and buttoning at the shoulder. “You are here to take me to the first trial, aren’t you?”
He nodded and opened a satchel at his side before lifting something out of it.
Walking back, he set another pair of armor on the bed.
“Put this on.” He walked to his wardrobe, reached inside and returned, setting some other looser clothes next to the armor—a loose-fitting man’s tunic and bulky trousers. “Put this over it.”
She stepped up to the bed. Picking it up, she examined the armor. It was lightweight, darker than Zarathos’s, with pure onyx dragon scales that ate up the light.
She cast a look over at Zarathos. “This is expensive.”
“I am a king. It is nothing.” He gestured to the clothes. “Make sure you put that on over it and keep it hidden.”
From his words, she didn’t think that the other kalators were going to receive armor before heading into danger.
“As you say,” she said, softly.
He stared at her uncertainly. Aryana bit her lip, a plan forming in her mind.
Maybe there was an opportunity here. It was clear from the opening ceremony that Zarathos had some attraction to her.
She wasn’t above toying with his feelings in order to make the idea of keeping her alive more palatable.
She didn’t have to force him to choose between his life and hers.
He’d never decide on her in such a circumstance.
But if he believed he could keep her, claim the vampire crown, and win the trials, perhaps he’d do it.
She’d use that and the mate bond to make him desire her.
Make him question whether he really wished for her demise.
He claimed love was strong. She’d see just how strong she could make it.
He nodded. “You can dress in the washroom.” He pointed to the opening in the wall. “Try not to take forever. We don’t want to be late to our first appointment with death.” Sarcasm laced his voice.
A smile pulled at her lips. “No, we wouldn’t want to be late for that.” She grabbed the fabric of her dress and slid it off her shoulder, allowing it to pool onto the floor, leaving her bare.
Zarathos froze, his gaze roving over her body, and then the shadows burst from the corners wrapping around him. “What the hell is this, Vampress?” his voice whispered, both cold and black as night.
“I'm hurrying,” she said. She took her time picking up the dragon armor and holding it up to examine it.
“I told you to change in the washroom,” he snarled. The shadows hid his scent, though the edged darkness in his tone told her all she cared to know.
“Come now, Zarathos. You were the one who refused to provide me with undergarments. Surely you aren’t afraid of a little skin.”
The shadows writhed along the floor as though in agony, slinking toward her like they longed to feel her but didn’t dare.
Was that Zarathos? Could those tendrils be his touch?
Her heart picked up at the thought of them brushing against her, of him reaching out to her and caressing her with the dark.
“Dress, Vampress. Now.” His voice was rough and commanding.
“As you say,” she murmured. She slowly stepped into the dragon scale armor.
It held tight against her skin, though it didn’t grate.
Just as languidly, she lifted the top over her head.
Even as a vampire princess who performed executions for her uncle, she’d never had such fine protective gear.
Nothing but a direct hit with a sword from a powerful demon would pierce the dragon’s scales.
She layered the oversized clothes over the armor.
Lastly, she pulled a pin off the vanity and wound her hair into a bun on her head.
When she finished, she stood there. “All done, Zarathos. You can come out of hiding,” she taunted.
“About time,” he snapped as he reappeared. He drew out his potion and downed it.
For the hundredth time, she wondered why he’d take something that caused him to have seizures. What horrible condition was he trying to cover?
Rage flashed in his eyes, but she noted the slight scent of arousal drifting off him and the hint of desire behind the glow in his gaze.
He grabbed a pair of boots that rested next to the wardrobe and set them before her. They were bent and worn but as she stepped into them she noted their comfort.
He surveyed her, then opened the door to his bedchamber. “Let’s go,” he growled.
“Yes, master.” She moved past him into the hall. He shut the door and stalked grimly at her side.
As they walked, Aryana’s mind switched to her upcoming task. The first trial. She rubbed her hands together. The trials would be violent and terrible, and yet she was finally getting into her element. No more time in chains pretending to be a prisoner.
Now, at the very least, she was permitted to struggle for her own survival in a fair fight.
“Try to avoid showing too much excitement,” Zarathos said quietly, his eyes still flashing with anger as he took her arm and urged her forward. “You’ll ruin my reputation in a single morning.”
"You’re awfully sarcastic today. Could you be nervous?”
“You’re supposed to appear as though you spent the last few nights being tortured in my bedchamber. If you would at least pretend like that possibly happened, we might make it through this.”
“As you say.”
Aryana went limp and Zarathos swore, dragging her forward, down the flights of stairs to the dungeons.
Her fear probably wasn’t as strong as it should be for their act, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t worn her down or injured her.
They’d have to make do. By the time they were there, Aryana’s arm ached from Zarathos’s grip and dirt covered her clothes.
She let loose a soft cry as he delivered her over to the guard. “Here she is, or what is left of her.”
He turned and stalked off.
She ran a hand over her middle, feeling the armor hidden beneath her attire. Yes, in time, she would have the demon arch king eating out of her palm.
The guard took her to her cell and forced her inside.
She looked over at the other kalators and frowned.
She saw no sign that they had received any medical attention from the events of the past couple of days.
Although Pohan was sitting up, his shirt used to wrap up his wings, and he’d made an attempt to wash the blood from his face from a small pan of water.
Neri also had torn a part of her dress to bandage her injury, though she still kept her head down.
Jesir the imp sat in his cell and nodded to Aryana as she entered.
As soon as the door clanged shut and the guard stepped away, Pohan leaned forward, his hand opening between their bars. It was a piece of stale old bread. She drew in a breath. But she knew that scent. It wasn’t just stale. She gazed at him in disbelief. “How did you get this?” she whispered.
Pohan’s hand extended farther, and he motioned to her earnestly. The sound of the guard’s footsteps indicated he’d made his round and was coming back. Aryana reached out and snatched up the bread, shoving it in her mouth, its taste sour against her tongue.
By the time she had swallowed it, the guard had come into view.
He popped open Neri’s cell and dragged her out of it.
Aryana pushed against the bars as she watched Neri’s slight form being pulled across the ground and she stumbled to get her feet under her. She disappeared around a corner. “Where are you taking her?”
“None of your business, vampire,” spat another guard. He leered at them as he reached up and took a cord hanging from the ceiling in his hand. He shoved a cloth over his mouth and nose. “Your destiny awaits, kalators.”
Then he pulled on the cord and a soft hiss released through a grate above her head. The smell of belladonna reached Aryana.
Her head grew fuzzy, and she fell to her knees.
Aryana awoke in a massive pit, the cloying scent of belladonna still lingering in her nostrils. She lay near the wall, and as her eyes fluttered open, her heart stilled. A sharpened spike was positioned inches from her eye.
The roar of a crowd echoed above, confirming what she already feared: they were in the arena. The main floor stretched high above the pit where she lay, and beyond that, the spectators loomed as curious gods, peering down as if she were some rare creature in a menagerie.
She sat up slowly, taking in the long spear-like metal shafts that lined the walls of the circular pit. Other kalators also laid around the edges of their enclosure, too close to the spikes for comfort.
Neri gripped one of the bars and pushed herself upright. At least she was still alive. Her eye widened as she turned toward the center of the pit, and Aryana followed her gaze.
In the middle stood a large platform that wound upward several meters, scattered with weapons.