Caged Warrior

but toward Leto. Wearing only her leather trousers and the tank top she slept in, she was conscious, so conscious, of his dark eyes following her. No animal. No beast. This was a man who knew his place in the world. Reveled in it. She was becoming the woman he wanted her to be, but he was still Leto. Her mentor. She wanted to touch him, to bask in his courage.

“Do you believe that I deserve to stand in a Cage with you?”

“Yes.” He said it with such confidence.

She needed to close her eyes. His approval. It meant more to her than she could explain. All she knew was that the rush of sensation upon hearing that one word was liquid and warming.

“May I?” She lifted her gaze to the head of his snake tattoo. His fresh buzz cut left it clearly visible. “I want to see it. All of it.”

“That would mean turning my back to you.”

“I’m not your enemy, remember?” She grinned. “Besides, you haven’t armed me yet. Collar on. No knife in hand. What could you fear from me?”

“Nothing.” But then he swallowed.

Nynn hid her surprise, her curiosity, and reached up to touch the snake’s hissing tongue. First, just skin beneath her fingers, where that tongue licked toward his smooth temple. She pushed back. Farther. The hair beneath her fingertips was stubbly but not coarse. She traced the body of the serpent until he was left with a choice: let that be the end of her exploration, or turn.

He watched her with unmistakable curiosity. Unmistakable even for him. Normally reading his expressions was like casting rune stones, a trick only the wild Pendray in the Highlands knew how to do. Right then, however, he lifted his coal-dark brows even higher. A muscle twitched along his scarred lip. Nearly a smile? A dare?

No, accepting a dare.

He turned slowly. Nynn had free rein to continue the path of that black serpent. It lay only partially concealed behind rich velvet hair. The tattoo ink was so dark. She tipped her finger to another angle. Fingernail now. The clash of swords and the swing of a scythe weren’t enough to make this fantastic male specimen flinch, but the scrape of her fingernail did. She shivered in response.

Still he turned. So slowly. She flicked her gaze between the tattoo and the portion of his back left bare by his crisscrossed armor straps. Muscles flexed and pulled, even with that achingly patient pace. The overhead bulbs cast extreme shadows. Every ridge sharper. Every curve more graceful. New patterns of light and dark and flesh were revealed no matter how insignificant his movement.

That sounded poetic, even to Nynn. Had she always thought to describe things with an artist’s eye, or was Leto just special? After all, he was man enough to inspire poetry in any mind. Throughout human history, odes had been written and masterpieces had been created to honor Dragon Kings.

Olympus. Thebes. Varanasi. Cahokia. Skara Brae.

No matter the city, no matter the tribe, men such as Leto had walked among human beings and reigned as gods. Awed subjects had looked upon such perfect bodies and found generous muses. Now she was touching him. Scraping his skin with one ragged fingernail.

He turned to face her, so that she finished with the serpent’s tail—slim, slimmer, gone—just at his other temple.

Their eyes met. Gold sparked between them. They both blinked and Nynn drew her hand away.

“Why the tattoo?”

“Initiation ceremony. If you do well tonight, you might be offered the same honor.”

She smiled, which always seemed to catch him off guard. “I don’t intend to do well.”

“That’s not the attitude of a—”

“Of a champion?” Her smile widened. “I know it’s not. Are you listening to your neophyte, Leto of Clan Garnis?”

His brows pinched toward the bridge of his nose. Confusion didn’t suit him but she enjoyed taking him by surprise. “Yes, I’m listening.”

“I intend to be astonishing. Be ready to keep up.”

¦   ¦   ¦

Leto didn’t need to watch her dress for the Cage. He’d seen her prepare often enough. Details stayed with him, whether he wanted them or not. Three weeks had emblazoned her across his senses.

Except for touch. He would never get enough of touch.

So he lingered. This was her first Cage fight. He wanted her to help him show up the Old Man. Not that he’d dare say it. Too petty. Even petulant. All he knew was that the head of the Aster cartel had reservations about Leto’s successes. With Nynn at his side, he would prove those reservations ridiculous.

He adjusted her armor and cinched the straps across her back. He lingered. Just as she’d traced his tattoo, he also needed to touch. Her back was a mess of cuts and whip marks. Most had healed, even if the skin still appeared puffy and red. He placed two fingers on either side of a long, angry slash and traced it down—from shoulder to where her skin disappeared beneath layers of metal and leather.

Hellix. The bastard. And Dr. Aster as his puppeteer.

Leto needed purpose. He found the fruition of that purpose staring up at him when Nynn turned. An untested warrior. A resilient woman. Her potent femininity collided with his body’s repressed needs. They were trainer and neophyte, but the fire in her icy eyes said she wanted more. A rough sort of want, no more gentle than the armor they wore.

Any gentler touch had no place between them.

Yet he’d held her while Ulia probed Nynn’s mind. He’d felt every tremble and each unconscious twist of her fingers against his skin. He’d smelled her hair and the sharp stench of dried blood. He just kept holding, as if in penance for the pain he could not save her from on that whipping post.

Or in the labs.

Or when her family was destroyed.

She’d come out of that session a different woman—apparently one who could stare him down. A woman who could touch him. Study him. Make him feel something very new. For a warrior who’d honed his reflexes and his senses for two decades, feeling anything new was both novel and unsettling.

Of course he remembered the continuous burning bite of the tattoo needle after his first victory in a Grievance. He’d been only sixteen—too young to receive an official initiation. But the Old Man had made an exception, because no sixteen-year-old had ever been invited to fight in a Grievance. No one had expected him to live. Possibly not even his father.

Leto had triumphed.

When he’d bowed his head to receive his tattoo, adrenaline yet pumped in his veins. Celebratory cups of golish had softened his brain. He’d been lucky that his heightened senses were damped. Back then, he hadn’t been able to carry over as much of his gift once the collar was reactivated. Otherwise the prick, prick, prick of the tattoo needle might have been too much to handle.

After a lifetime of practice, he’d learned to control all of it. When to feel. When to cut off feeling. Yet he still felt her nail trailing along the serpent’s undulating body. Over and over. A tickle across the back of his skull. And he still felt the skin of her back where he’d traced his fingers.

All he could do was keep her safe now. They would conquer all comers.

“I’ll wait for you outside the gate,” he said roughly.

He left her cell—which wouldn’t be her cell much longer. Victory in that evening’s match would see her established in a warrior’s dorm. She would have privacy and small luxuries. In other words, she would not be his to control so completely.

Frustrated, edgy, he waited outside the locked gate for Nynn to emerge.

A shiver crept up his back like a spider’s eight legs. The neophyte who’d insisted on being called Audrey had defied him at every turn. Only the goal of saving her son had given her strength and purpose. That goal had helped him justify why he pushed her so hard. That their goals were so compatible only eased the process.

This woman . . . This was Nynn of Tigony.

She wore her perfectly fitted armor with confidence as she strode into the light. Blond hair glimmered and cast spiky shadows across her forehead and cheeks. Those freckles gave her features extra depth. Texture, even. Something untenable and unique to her.