In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima Page B

happened with his lover. Poor Leander. Stratos shook his head in false ruefulness, and then darkness stole his mirth. He should not have fucked with what was mine.
    In the end, Alession’s Ebon charm had proved stronger than Hektor’s will, stronger than his love.
    And while Stratos had reveled in the proof that true love was weak, a fragile thing easily broken, he had to admit… Letting the spell on Hektor burn out just as Leander was breathing his last was probably a touch of cruelty that was beneath even him.
    Maybe. He paused at a merchant cart to sample some salted dates. The savory-sweet taste struck his tongue and made his mouth water.
    Alession loved salted dates. Before Stratos realized it, he had purchased more than he could eat. Fool, he chided himself. Tonight, as almost every night, Alession would be dining with her.
    He shot a glare at the white-swathed balcony across the way. The Empress.
    Hektor Actaeon might have burned out, but he hadn’t outlived his usefulness. After all, he was training the boy, and when the boy won the Grand Melee, he would stand before the Empress to receive his laurels. And then Stratos would invoke the power of the Ebon. Lucan would become his slave. The Empress would die. And Lucan?
    Stratos crunched down on another date.
    Lives were cheap in Arena.

Chapter Five
    FIRST SKIRMISH
    Every victory
    In the Empress’s Theatre
    Brought a gladiator closer
    To gaining his name.
    —Nefertari Amon Actaeon, of House Actaeon, the Warriors
    “Move your feet!” Hektor bulled in, bashing with the shield, staggering Lucan back a pace.
    Lucan squinted one eye against the impact and the dust their sandals kicked up. After two weeks of rest, his side was still tender, but that didn’t keep Hektor from putting him through his training paces.
    All across the courtyard of the Ludus Magnii, trainers were running their novices through drills and mock-combat scenarios. Some fought with gladius and shield, others with net and trident. Others performed feats of strength, dragging heavy weights of stone behind them as their trainers whipped them faster with their canes.
    At least Hektor doesn’t whip me.
    The clash of Hektor’s sword against Lucan’s rattled up his arm and made his shoulder ache. The power of the man! Lucan took a moment to drink in the sight of him, muscular and sweating under the sun, stripped to the waist, all that tanned skin. Lucan wanted to run his hands along it, run his tongue along it, go to his knees before Hektor and—
    “Stop daydreaming.” Hektor’s admonishment was soft, but his blow was hard.
    He knocked Lucan sprawling, but this time, Lucan was ready. He touched one hand to the earth and used it as a pivot point. Spinning with the momentum, he launched back at Hektor. And now he allowed all his frustration and anger to drive him—the bout with Bull Neck, his resulting injury, the brutal training, the fact that maybe, just maybe he was coming to terms with what he wanted.
    It had been weeks since he’d been in the arena. Weeks gone by that could have seen him victorious and claiming his trophy, or vanquished and being claimed as the prize. Such practices were natural in the arena.
    And yet somehow, Hektor had arranged for Lucan to escape his duty in the Claim. He’d not had to plow Bull Neck’s ass that next dawn.
    Secretly, Lucan was glad, grateful.
    He didn’t want Bull Neck.
    With a sharp battle cry, Lucan launched at Hektor, his passes wild but fueled by anger and passion. He forced the primus palus back to his longspear. In all the times they’d sparred, Hektor had never had to reach for his primary weapon. Instead, he subsisted with a dull short sword, and still every time he defeated Lucan.
    Not today.
    For the first time, Lucan was on the offensive. He attacked. His sword an extension of his arm, he parried and riposted, advancing toward Hektor and then retreating. It felt like an intricate dance of give and take. Him dancing in, Hektor darting back.