In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima Read Free Book Online Page A

muscles and predatory posture on display. Lucan could not help but wonder what kind of lover he would be—protective, gentle, loving, or swift and demanding, taking what he wanted. Perhaps a combination of the two.
    Lucan hoped the heat would hide his blush.
    Stratos’s smirk told him otherwise. “I am glad you seem to enjoy watching him. Soon you’ll do more than watch.”
    His words were layered, the double meaning clear, and Lucan could not help but touch his chest, his left pectoral, where Alession had carved his dark spell. No trace of the strange ebon brand remained, only healed skin, fresh and fair. And yet, when Stratos spoke, a tiny pang of pain awoke inside Lucan.
    It bloomed like a poisonous flower, throwing out tendrils inside his chest. Lucan told himself he was imagining it.
    “Soon enough,” Stratos repeated.
    Lucan’s heart raced beneath his fingers. More than watch? Hektor Actaeon was the primus palus. The odds-makers wouldn’t grant Lucan three turns of the water clock in the arena with that man.
    Stratos must have seen the stricken look on Lucan’s face. He chuckled, not unkindly. “No, my friend. I mean, soon you will train with him.”
    “Train?” Lucan looked at the quaestor with incredulity. “With Hektor Actaeon?”
    “Yes,” Stratos said. He bit into a date and chewed with pleasure. “He is a primus palus and allowed to teach…for the proper incentives. I have arranged it with Agamemnon Actaeon of his House, for no small cost. Hektor will train you in the mornings.” He clapped Lucan on the shoulder a bit hard. “You’ll be a champion gladiator yet. You’ll make your name and bring honor to House Vulpinius.”
    Lucan nodded, too dumbfounded to speak. He glanced down at where Hektor Actaeon stood victorious. Lucan’s heart jolted.
    But this time it was for altogether different reasons.
    BLOOD AND SAND and the lust for battle. These were Hektor’s elements, and in them he was a dark god, akin to the Doomsayer himself in power and potency. He raised the stolen polearm over his vanquished foe and preened. The masses rose, their fervor a thunder across the theatre, his name on the lips of every man and woman.
    “Hektor! Hektor! Hektor!”
    He glared up at the Empress. He knew the adoration, the accolades were meaningless.
    The Empress had been the Empress so long no one remembered her name. But in the end, everyone obeyed her—everyone who did not want to die as an undesirable noxii in the arena.
    Only a few had ever succeeded at defying her.
    Looking down at his opponent kneeling in the sand, feeling the heat of the man’s hands around his knees, Hektor was struck with harsh memory—Leander kneeling, his golden hair fallen around his bruised face. Blood gushing onto the sand. So much blood.
    Leander. Hektor swayed as a wave of crippling pain assailed him. Three years. It had been three years, and yet he would not stop blaming himself.
    Gladiators died in the arena all the time. But that time it had been Leander.
    He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them. He looked anywhere but his fallen opponent. It hadn’t been fear on Leander’s face. It had been love. Love and acceptance when Hektor had—
    “To the sky! To the sky!” The masses screamed for blood. They always screamed for blood.
    I will not give it to them today. Hektor stood ready to defy the Empress.
    A small smile touched her lips. Somehow, she knew. She always knew. She tipped her thumb down.
    Relief bloomed through Hektor. He thrust the polearm into the sand instead of into the flesh of his opponent. The crowd booed and jeered and then hushed as a sudden, stiff breeze blew through the arena, snapping the crimson canopy above them in a sound much like bones breaking.
    The heatwave was over.
    Hektor exhaled in relief. He raised his trident and shouted the traditional words of victory, “For the Empress! For the Empress!”
    The masses roared approval and displayed their favor in the usual