Chapter 32
Zarathos
Zarathos sat at the center of the banquet table. So many feasts for the champions. Demons who smiled and spoke—well, somewhat politely—in such settings, but then were ready to rip each other’s heads off in the arena. Zarathos didn’t blame them. He played the same game.
But he did blame them for the spectacle they forced Aryana to endure tonight.
She stood behind him and slightly to the right, trembling in his peripheral vision.
The same torn and tattered gown from the banquet only a night ago clung to her frame, now soaked in blood and nearly blackened by the soil and grime she’d crawled through during the last trial.
Refusing even a bath, her skin was as streaked and battered as the fabric, marked with burns and bruises.
All because she was the vampire princess.
The potion she’d taken left a sharp, unmistakable scent in the air: fear.
He’d learned to focus it on the situation, not himself. Yet, he was unsure if that made it any better for her. It didn’t make it any easier for him to know she was terrified, and he was the one who forced her to feel that way.
Damn the Demon Trials. Damn his company. She was too good for him, too good for any of them. She should be sitting by his side, fierce and unyielding, her gaze burning with purpose. Not cowering in the shadows.
His fist clenched around his fork. He hated what she did to herself. The self-inflicted pain. Knowing her, she most likely believed she deserved it. As if it wasn’t Zarathos that had trapped her in this situation he couldn’t get either of them out of.
The other demons passed by, eyeing her. “Looks as if someone has fallen from grace,” Pithian, acting in his role as Marbas, said dismissively. That bastard. Zarathos was pretty sure he’d assisted Aryana in her self-wounding. He would find a means to make him pay.
What was left of the other kalators were standing behind their champions, as disheveled and beaten as Aryana. By the end of the night, he’d have to do something other than let her stand there in fear and pain.
Pithian took his seat further down the table, talking big as he did at such events, even while casting a glance at Zarathos, warning him not to back out.
Gods, he despised this.
The kingdom of Aeria was hosting the event, and this time the council was also in attendance. Aside from the champions and council members, the rest of the demons in the room hailed from the host nation.
Xaphoron rose from his seat, his broad wings unfurling behind him in a graceful arc. “Welcome to our feast! Though we may be enemies on the battlefield, tonight is a time for pleasure and celebration. A moment to commend ourselves for making it this far.”
A sinister smirk came to his face, probably plotting how to defeat his fellow champions and secure himself a crown in the next trial.
Although ironically, Zarathos had claimed a crown.
A member of the trial council had given it to him before coming to the feast. Killing Balafur meant the crown from the first trial transferred to Zarathos.
“So enjoy tonight, council members. And my fellow champions…” Xaphoron’s smile turned dark. “Enjoy it while you can.”
He clapped his hands, and the doors on the other side opened.
The smell of humans flooded Zarathos’s nostrils.
Twenty human females in white shifts were herded into the room.
Their hair was pulled back, makeup done up.
They looked innocent, the scent of fear drifting off of them. Worthy of devouring.
The demons around him rose, fixing their gaze on them, hunger in their eyes.
He sensed Aryana stiffening behind him.
The trouble with the Draught of Corruption was that, after repeated use, its effects began to fade more quickly. It had to be wearing off for her.
And at the worst time.
He stole a glance behind him. She was fixated on the females, eyes blazing, fists clenched at her sides.
Damn it. After everything he’d seen of her pain, he understood. Aryana didn’t just think love was weak. She believed her love was weak. That she had failed the ones she cared for: her father, her human friend, the town she couldn’t save.
And now, this was her chance to make up for it.
But in this moment, in this festering pit, redemption meant death—for both her and Zarathos.
All the time spent with her in his chambers had made this truth impossible to ignore, and now she had chosen this terrible instant to play it out.
“Ah, fresh meat. This one has worn out her welcome.” Zarathos grabbed Aryana by the throat and drew her to the table, pressing her against it, forcing a kiss on her.
While he held her, his grip tightened, squeezing once.
Their code for no. She gripped his wrist as if to pull him off and felt her squeeze twice in return.
Yes.
“Don’t,” he murmured against her lips. It was more a plea not to ruin everything they were working toward.
He pulled back with a laugh. Casting a purposeful, leering glance at the poor humans.
Aryana twisted, jerking Zarathos’s less than firm grip off of her and shoved him to the side, rolling across the table, sending a pitcher of crimson flying.
He stumbled as she lunged forward, placing herself between the humans and the demons.
Somehow, despite her chained wrists, she’d managed to get his sword in her hands.
And yet, he wasn't surprised.
She brandished the sword toward the demons. “Keep away.” She glanced at the human females behind her. “Stay behind me. I’ll get you out of here.”
Zarathos ground his teeth.
Play the part. Play it perfectly. And the vampress will inevitably find a way to ruin it.
“Who says we want to leave?” one female in the group asked.
Aryana blinked. Looking at the human like she’d never seen her before. “But you don’t know what they are going to do to you. Take your blood. Maybe torture… do whatever they please to you.”
“We understand what we signed up for,” the female countered, and several others nodded in agreement.
Aryana stumbled, eyeing them, lowering her sword. “But I smell your fear.”
“Yes. We are afraid, but we are also excited.”
“And exceedingly well paid,” added another.
“Now, if you will excuse us, we have a job to do.”
And the humans shifted right past Aryana and her blade into the arms of the awaiting demons. One walked up to Zarathos, but he shook his head, and another quickly claimed her.
He had someone else he needed to figure out what to do with. He made his way around the table to where she stood, sword in hand. “Aryana.”
She gazed at him, completely lost, and his heart twisted. What she had done was utterly foolish and downright dangerous, but it was also so her that he almost blamed himself for not seeing this coming.
The sight of Zarathos seemed to snap her out of wherever her mind had gone. Her eyes widened with terror. Genuine fear this time. He tensed at the scent of it. She let the sword slide from her fingers and she fell to her knees.
“Forgive me, master.”
He looked down at her, trying to appear stern and unforgiving. “You and I will go to our chamber for another session…”
“No, master, please, I beg you.”
He gripped her chains and dragged her toward the door.
“What if we did it right here?” The voice of Xaphoron caused Zarathos to pause, his hand on the latch. So close.
“What do you mean?” Zarathos asked.
“She disrespected all of us. If you are as tired of her as you say, then perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing.” A cruel smile spread over Xaphoron’s face. He’d pushed his human aside and stared at Zarathos in challenge.
Fire burned in Zarathos’s chest, and he wanted to launch himself at Xaphoron and rip out his throat, but he had to remain unfazed. For Aryana. “I’ve fucked her so many times her thighs are still coated in my cum. You want my dirty seconds?”
“Maybe not that. But perhaps a little taste of her?” His grin grew wicked. “From all of us, of course.”
Hunger sparked in the other demons’ eyes. “Yes, just a taste. We hear vampire blood is quite delicious,” the champion from Kingdom Spiritu Malignos said.
It was a challenge. A test to see if she meant as little to him as he said, or to ascertain if it was a ploy. Zarathos glared at the group. If he backed off, they were as good as dead, but a piece of him didn’t care.
The vampress belonged to him, and he was tired of pretending otherwise.
Aryana gripped his ankle and squeezed twice. Yes.
She understood this may be the only chance they had to recover from her actions, but Zarathos still wasn’t sure he cared. Their act tonight had been a long shot in the first place.
And yet, if there was even a possibility this could save Aryana’s life…
His lip curled. “Fine. Have at her.” He threw her into the room’s center and she slid across the floor, slowly pushing up onto her hands and knees, her eyes locking with Zarathos. Damn, he detected her fear, but in her gaze, he only saw her determination.
To be as brave as her.
Xaphoron approached, and he bent down. He took a long whiff of her, running his tongue along her neck.
“My dear, you smell delectable.” He watched Zarathos with a sick delight as he curled his fist in her hair and tipped her head back.
Zarathos forced himself not to react, though every muscle in his body was screaming to get his Bloodbound away from the monster.
He flinched inwardly when teeth penetrated her skin, his fists balling.
Aryana kept her gaze fixed on Zarathos, a warning not to interfere.
Xaphoron let loose a moan of pleasure. His grasp fell to Aryana’s waist, drawing her closer, his hands moving over her body.
His claws ripped into her dress at her side, tearing a piece of fabric loose.
Aryana’s jaw squared, and she gave the slightest shake of her head.
But Zarathos didn’t fucking care. Red flashed before his eyes and he surged forward, wrenching him away from Aryana. He slammed his fist into the other demon’s face. Xaphoron fell back against the table, his mouth full of Aryana’s blood.
Zarathos advanced, ready to end him, but Pithian was there, inserting himself between him and Xaphoron. “No attacking other demons outside the arena. Watch your temper, Your Majesty.”
All Zarathos had to do was order him aside and he could finish ripping this demon to pieces. Pithian’s eyes flicked to the others in the room. The demons from kingdom Aeria stood, murder in their gazes, ready to do battle for their last champion in the trials.
Zarathos snarled at Xaphoron. “Lay a hand on her again, and you won’t live to regret it.”
He backed up to where Aryana watched with wide eyes, and he reached down, taking her chains and tugging her to her feet.
“This is my kalator. She is mine. Mine to punish. Mine to touch. Mine to kill. If anyone dares to lay a finger on her, they will be granted a swift death. That is a promise from your arch king.”
“Lies. She is your Bloodbound, your queen,” Xaphoron growled, scarlet dripping from his chin. “There is no binding agreement saying you have to kill your kalator in the trials if you win. That is your plan. You would place an enemy on our throne.”
“If I win the trials and remain your arch king, then that will be my decision to make.” Zarathos jerked on Aryana’s chains, drawing her close.
“We’ve never had a queen on the demon throne,” Xaphoron said.
“Then I suppose she’ll be the first.”
Some part of him recognized that he was ruining everything. Painting a giant target on their backs, and yet in the moment he didn’t give a damn.
His eyes fell upon Aryana, at the frown on her face, but there was something more that scared him more than anything: guilt and resignation. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed. Without looking back, Zarathos tugged on the chains. “Come.”
And with that, he led her from the room.