Elisabeth Naughton - Slave to Passion

He pushed up on his knee, cringed at the pain in his side. One look told him it wasn’t a pulled muscle as he’d thought. Blood dripped down his hip and onto his leg. Shaking off the sand, he picked up his training sword and hobbled toward the guards.

“ This is not who you are, Nasir .”

“It is fucking now,” he growled under his breath, not even slowing this time at the sound of Talah’s voice ringing in his ears. It was time he stopped fighting who he’d become. The sooner he let go of Talah and a life he’d never return to, the more Ghuls he could kill. And before the sorceress who’d sent him to this hell called him back, he planned to take out as many Ghuls as he could.

His side pinched as he bathed. While they allowed him to clean himself this time, no one offered to stitch the wound. Another punishment, he realized. If he caught some deadly infection in his filthy cell, no one would care. After covering the gash as best he could with a clean piece of cloth, which he tied around his torso, he dressed in a new pair of black pants, then headed for the door. The guards parted. In the dank corridor, the smell of food being delivered to different cells pulled a growl from his stomach.

More tired than hungry, all he wanted was to fall onto his uncomfortable mattress and go dead to the world. Between the female trembling in his cell and Talah’s voice haunting him half the night, he’d been bleary-eyed and on edge by morning. But oh so thankful when he’d finally found himself alone. Until, that was, Malik got hold of him.

He stopped in front of his cell, took the tray the guard handed him with its measly rations. As the guard pulled the cell door open and smirked, Nasir wondered what—besides his latest beating—the fucker could possibly find amusing.

The cell door clanged shut behind him. The soft scent of roses filled the air.

And then he knew.

A single candle burned on the table beside his bed, sending flickering orange light cascading over the stone walls. Red hair spilled across his pillow; bare feet rested near the foot of his bed. But it was the slim female curled up on his dingy mattress, wearing nothing but a black gown bunched around her thighs, her hands tucked up near her face, her eyes closed as her chest rose and fell with her steady, sleep-filled breaths, that drew his steps to an abrupt halt.

* * *

Kavin’s eyes flew wide at the loud clap somewhere close.

She jerked upright. Disoriented from sleep, she blinked several times and tried to figure out where she was. Cold stone walls, one flickering candle, an uncomfortable mattress beneath her, and… oh, shit …an enraged sahad glaring from above.

“What the fuck are you doing here again?”

Kavin’s pulse shot up, and she swallowed hard, scrambled back. But the bed was pushed up against the wall, leaving her trapped.

“I…” Don’t show fear . Malik’s words from yesterday flitted through her mind, searched for footing, finally latched on tight when terror wanted to drag her under. “I…I was sent to you.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “By whom?”

He didn’t know? Her foggy mind spun, and she remembered Hana telling her that Marid didn’t keep jarriah . That the jarriah test was Ghul alone. “I…I’m your reward,” she stammered. “For your recent victory.”

He stared at her so long her heartbeat sped up until it was a blur echoing in her ears. Shit! Had she really just said that? Her hands shook, and she balled them into fists against the dingy mattress, hoping he wouldn’t see.

“You’re a reward?” he asked skeptically. “From whom?”

“From…” What should she say? She looked around, frantically searching for an answer, and caught sight of the metal tray of food at his feet. The tray he’d dropped against the unforgiving stones to wake her.

Malik was right—she’d realized his logic after Zayd had hit her, but this cemented it. The only way she was going to survive this new life was to never show fear—in front of Zayd, in front of whomever he sent her to, in front of this sahad . It was a long shot—thinking he might treat her differently if he believed she was here by choice rather than as a punishment—but at the moment, it was the only option she had left.

She lifted her chin and prayed it was too dark for him to see it shaking. “From the highborns.”

“The highborns don’t care about my victories. They’d just as soon see me dead.”

That was true, but she grasped on to another truth. One he likely didn’t know. “The females… They root for you. For the sahad who wears the fire opal.”

His cold stare burned into her from across the space. So unfriendly, so calculating, she was afraid he was debating whether to kill her now or let her live a few more measly minutes. She balled her hands together in her lap. Tried to keep them from trembling. Tried like hell to be strong, as Malik had told her to be.

“I don’t believe you,” he finally said, his low voice cutting through the silence, sending a shiver down her spine. “You don’t have the slave marking.”

She didn’t. And he obviously didn’t realize she just hadn’t been branded yet. Which meant she was right. He didn’t know what she was.

A tiny flicker of hope burst to life in her chest as her gaze lifted from those massive hands at his sides, up his bare arms and shoulders, and finally to his chiseled face, illuminated by the flickering candlelight. If he didn’t know she was a slave and instead thought she was a highborn who’d volunteered to be his reward, he’d likely be gentler with her. Maybe he’d even let her live.

That hope spread like wildfire all through her body. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was better than being brutally raped. She’d survived Zayd’s temper tantrum. Yeah, her skin still burned from the beating, but she now knew she could survive anything this Marid did to her, so long as he didn’t kill her. Because she wanted to live. Now more than ever. It might be years—even eons—before she found a path to freedom, but she was determined to do just that. Screw her parents who’d sold her into slavery and already forgotten her. She was the only person who cared about her. And it was far past time she stopped worrying and started strategizing.

Slowly, she pushed up from the stained mattress and stood in front of him on legs she hoped he couldn’t see trembling. This close, every flexing muscle beneath his skin, every ounce of waiting power was visible. And she could smell him. Not disgusting and revolting as he’d been before, but clean, male, strangely…enticing.

She gave herself a mental slap. Yeah, at first she’d been mesmerized by his show in the arena and, like other females who’d watched his fights, couldn’t deny he was the perfect male specimen, all sculpted lean muscles and brawny sinew. But she wasn’t attracted to him. He was simply the first hurdle on her path to freedom.

“I’m not a slave,” she lied, praying he’d never learn the truth. “And I volunteered to be your…prize.”

His eyes narrowed once more, but she didn’t let it deter her. This was the only card she had to play, and she’d bluff all the way to her grave if she had to. “I thought I made it perfectly clear yesterday that I don’t want you.”

Fear flashed through her when she remembered his hand around her throat. Fear she hoped didn’t show in her eyes. Thankfully, the bruises were small and, in this light, probably not even visible. Steeling her nerves, she moved a small step closer, even as the heat of his body encircled her and that intoxicatingly fresh scent she now knew was all him left her light-headed.

“Your wants are of no concern,” she said. “And you’re lucky the highborns didn’t kill you for the way you treated me last night. They’re giving you a second chance. It goes without saying that a gift like this can’t—and won’t—be refused…slave.”