Chapter 33 #2
I grabbed Balthazar, yanking him in front of me like a human shield.
The heat rolling off him was unbearable, like standing in the mouth of an inferno. My fingers dug into his flesh, refusing to let go.
With a guttural snarl, I plunged my dagger deep into his back.
Balthazar bellowed in rage, his scream a sound of pure, unbridled fury. His body convulsed, and before I could react, he twisted with supernatural strength and hurled me across the room.
I flew through the air.
The world spun.
Fear swallowed me whole.
I hit the ground hard, rolling on impact before jackknifing to my feet. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, but I pushed the pain aside.
Marcellious was already poised to fight, but the odds were stacked against us—Costa’s poison and Balthazar’s fire made for an impossible battle.
Still, I was a soldier.
And good soldiers never backed down.
I needed a strategy.
I’d pick off Costa’s men one by one, then go for Costa.
I yanked a small pocketknife from my belt, dual-wielding it with my dagger, and squared off against a towering brute—one of Costa’s biggest goons—a swarthy, thick-shouldered hulk of a man who cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
Costa smirked, arms folded, as he stepped back.
“You’re a fool, Alexander,” he mused. “This will be fun to watch.”
The goon bared his teeth.
A bolt of fear coursed through my bloodstream, my muscles locking for half a second. Costa was right. I was insane to think I had a chance here.
But then—
Olivia’s face drifted into my mind.
She carried our child.
I could not let her down.
I’d faced too many men who had claimed victory before the fight had even begun—arrogant bastards who thought the coliseum belonged to them.
Where were they now?
Dead. Bones picked clean beneath the earth.
All it took was one mistake—one distraction, one cough, one misstep.
I summoned every ounce of gladiator instinct within me.
None of these men had faced what I had in the arena.
The goon charged.
I sidestepped, pivoting to the right, my footwork precise.
He growled, stumbling to regain balance. Sloppy. Slow.
This one would be easy.
We circled each other like wolves. I let my gaze flicker to the side, just for a second.
Instinct took over.
The goon’s eyes followed mine, idiot.
I lunged, slamming my dagger hard into his chest.
The satisfying crunch of bone and flesh echoed as the blade sank deep.
The goon staggered, a stunned wheeze escaping his lips as his hands clutched his ribcage. Then, with a strangled gurgle, he toppled to the ground.
Around me, the sounds of battle raged.
Grunts. Groans. The wet thud of bodies hitting the floor.
Costa hadn’t been exaggerating when he called Marcellious a savage.
Marcellious fought with relentless brutality—cunning movements honed by years among the Native Americans and sharpened to deadly precision in the coliseum.
Three men lay sprawled across the floor, dead or dying—their blood seeping into the cracks of the wooden planks.
Another figure emerged, stepping over the bodies like discarded debris.
Wiry and skeletal, his face a roadmap of scars, he twirled a dagger between nimble fingers. His movements were light and precise.
A dancer with a blade.
We circled each other, a deadly rhythm setting the pace.
Then, we struck.
Blades flashed. Metal clashed.
A shallow cut opened across his jaw, a thin line of blood beading along his scarred skin.
His blade struck in return—quick, vicious.
A sharp stab tore through my upper arm, slicing as effortlessly as if my flesh were butter.
Blood poured from both of us, pooling at our feet in a widening crimson stain.
The scent of it ignited something primal.
I lifted my wounded arm and licked the blood away.
Teeth bared, I faced my wiry opponent, daring him to step closer.
A memory surged—the siccae, the curved blade of the coliseum.
I had fought scores of opponents in the arena—not just men, but lions and tigers, unleashed to tear us apart.
Scarface had no idea what a real battle looked like.
But before I could lunge, another figure slid from the shadows.
A second henchman, broader, stronger, wielding a sword.
Damn it.
Where was a retes when I needed one? A weighted net would have trapped the swordsman long enough for me to get the skeletal bastard before me.
The two of them exchanged a silent look, then powered toward me.
I whirled out of the way, knives a blur.
I struck first—my blade sliced into the swordsman’s neck before he could impale me.
Blood sprayed.
He let out a roar of rage.
And then, he tackled me.
The world tilted as I slammed onto my back with a bone-rattling impact, air whooshing from my lungs.
Pain burst through me, but I had no time to react—
The bleeding swordsman snarled and pressed his sword to my throat.
Cold steel bit against my skin.
One wrong move and I was dead.
I hooked my foot behind his leg and rolled, flipping him off me. His sword was carved into my neck in the process.
How deep? I’d find out soon enough—either through victory or death.
From the sidelines, Costa and Balthazar’s voices rang out like war drums.
“Do it, Lucas! Marco! Finish him! Two against one—take him down!” Costa bellowed.
“If you don’t,” Balthazar roared, “I will.”
Lucas’ grip on his sword slackened as I crushed his wrist beneath my weight. Blood seeped from the wound on his neck, his breaths coming in sluggish gulps. The life was draining out of him.
His glassy eyes met mine.
I slit his throat, finishing what I started.
The body crumpled.
Marco lunged, grabbing for the dead man’s sword.
I shot to my feet, roaring as I charged him.
Marco spun and lashed out with a powerful kick. His boot slammed against my hand like a sledgehammer, sending my knife flying.
The blade whirled through the air, smashed against the wall, and then dropped, burying itself deep into the wooden floor.
I was left with only my pocketknife.
Marco, now wielding a massive blade, grinned.
A chill slithered down my spine.
We circled each other, eyes locked, searching for the slightest weakness.
Sweat beaded on my forehead, blood trickling down the front of my shirt from the gash on my neck.
I ignored it.
Focus. Breathe. Wait for the moment.
Marco lunged, his blade slicing toward me with murderous intent.
I dove to the side, barely evading his attack, and slashed out with my knife.
My blade carved a deep gash across his arm.
Marco bellowed, stumbling back, eyes burning with rage. He advanced again, relentless, stabbing and jabbing with brutal precision.
I twisted and dodged, barely staying out of reach.
His attacks were ruthless and fast.
I needed an opening.
Then—I saw it.
I surged forward, thrusting my blade deep into Marco’s shoulder.
His primal roar shook the walls.
He swung wildly, desperate to drive me back. His massive blade whistled through the air, narrowly missing my head.
I ducked, rolled—
Then, I leaped to my feet, blood pounding in my ears.
We limped around each other, two warriors barely standing, held together only by sheer will. My breath was ragged, my limbs trembling, but slowly, strength returned to me. Marco’s movements grew sluggish—his swings desperate and reckless.
I dodged his next attack with ease, slipping past his defenses. Now.
I lunged forward, my blade driving deep into his chest with a sickening thud.
The light faded from his eyes.
And just like that, it was over.
A strange scent curled through the air.
Bitter. Sharp.
The moment it hit the back of my throat, I gagged.
A thick, acrid smoke flooded the tavern, turning the world into a choking, blinding void.
I staggered, throwing out my hands, feeling for anything—for anyone.
“Marcellious?” I coughed, my voice raw. “Where are you?”
Fingers snatched my hair, yanking my head back with brutal force.
A voice slithered into my ear.
“I’m going to have a lot of fun with your brother,” Balthazar hissed. “He betrayed me. And now he’s going to pay.”
Before I could react, searing pain exploded through my side as his blade sliced into me.
I crumpled, agony crashing over me in waves.
Through the swirling fog of pain, I caught a glimpse of Marcellious—his body writhing in Costa’s merciless grip, bloody tears streaking his face as he fought for freedom.
The room tilted. My head pounded as if a thousand knives were stabbing through my skull.
Shit. Costa released poison.
The air turned thick, suffocating.
The edges of my vision darkened.
Then—
Costa and Balthazar flung Marcellious’ limp body into the street like discarded trash.
Spears of agony pierced my skull as I stumbled blindly, trying to fight the poison’s grip.
Then—
A shadow emerged through the smoke.
A figure moving toward me.
Slow. Relentless.
Was it Malik?
Please let it be Malik.
My head spun.
The world was unraveling, spiraling into a nightmare.
I tried to call out, but my throat clenched, and the words stuck.
Then, my body collapsed, hitting the floor in a paralyzed heap.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak.
The only thing I could do was blink.
The figure reached me.
Strong hands seized my arms, dragging me toward the exit.
But something was wrong.
My rescuer staggered—his grip weak, his movements sluggish.
I forced my vision to focus, my eyes darting over his face.
Yes.
It was Malik.
But just as relief flooded through me, his body buckled, crumpling hard beside me.
The poison was in his system, too.
A numbing chill stole over my limbs, freezing me in place.
The bitter taste of the toxin still coated my tongue.
I lay motionless, helpless. Malik’s body twitched beside me, his chest rising and falling in jagged, labored breaths.
We stared at each other, eyes darting in silent desperation.
We had to get out.
We had to move.
But how?
Then—
A low, primal roar tore from Malik’s throat, rattling the very air around us.
With every ounce of willpower, every muscle in his body shook against the poison’s grip.
He forced himself up—inch by inch—his limbs quivering with effort.
His teeth ground together, his entire body revolting against the paralysis.
Finally, his knees steadied.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he rasped.
His strength—his determination—ignited something inside me.
With his help, I clawed my way forward.
Together, inch by inch, we dragged ourselves toward the door.
Every movement was agony. Every breath was a battle.
The tavern blurred around me, my vision rippling as the poison continued to take its toll.
But finally—
We crossed the threshold, spilling into the chilly, windswept night.
I hit the cold ground, gasping, fighting to stay conscious.
Beside me, Malik trembled, his body spent from the effort.
Where would we go?
What was our next move?
My mind was screaming for a plan, but I had nothing left.
And by the looks of him, neither did Malik.