Baited (Gladiators of the Gryn #2)

Izzy

IZZY

I t’s been two nova-days since Blayn was at the house. I’m halfway between being worried about him, especially after watching all the vids Riklinn was able to find on the gladiators (ones we didn’t have to pay for), and wondering if he’s decided not to come back, given his profession.

The dome is an unbelievably violent place and the Gryn gladiators considered fair game for anyone who wants to have a go.

Not that they don’t hold their own. From what we could find, I saw Blayn, covered in blood which was clearly not his own, hacking at other species as they fought back. Three or four other Gryn joined him, and they made the dome an unrelenting, dangerous place.

I am left in no doubt that the Gryn are killers. Predators every single one of them, each as dark and deadly as the next, and Blayn is the most feral of them all.

Finally, I get the call to go to cubicle 5-YV1, although the comm I receive tells me nothing about why I need to be there. I reach the passage by way of the servant’s elevator, and as I hurry onwards, I’m met by the huge Xnosson bull and the madame, who has her arm linked in his.

“He went missing for a nova-day in the undercroft,” the bull is saying to Madame as I approach. “It’s something he often does with one of his fellow gladiators. They’re often uncontrollable after a bout in the games, normally after they’ve done…what needs to be done.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “That’s Gryn for you, law unto themselves.”

“But he’s not dangerous”—she bats her eyelids at the bull—“after such a disappearing act, is he?”

“No, it usually means he’s had time to work it out of his system.” The bull snorts. “Your pleasure worker, you, and the rest of your staff will be completely safe.”

Madame gives me a knowing look, and I scuttle past them both into the cubicle as the Zarvu guards stomp out.

I half expect to see Blayn standing in his usual spot, but he isn’t there. In fact the cubicle seems empty initially, until I mount the few stairs which take me to the bed and seating area.

Blayn is slumped at the foot of the bed, wings askew, his chin on his chest. He is filthy, although that’s nothing new. One arm, black streaked, is limp beside him, hand upturned, claws retracted, only the sharp black tips protruding. The other lies across his hard, muscled abdomen.

This is not him. This almost lifeless thing is not the bundle of feral energy I thought I was getting to know.

“Blayn?” I’m kneeling next to him, lifting my hands, almost touching him until I remember myself and I shove my hands behind my back.

Painfully, he lifts his head, those dark eyes, deep pools of the unknown, dulled with pain.

“?” he rasps. “You are here.”

“Yes, I’m here.”

God! Not touching him is a nightmare. All I want is to put a hand on his arm, or his cheek to reassure him, or on his forehead to check his temperature, because he’s unnaturally pale, two livid spots on his dirty cheeks.

“Are you…well?” I say in the face of someone who is clearly not well.

Blayn pants out a harsh breath and moves his hand. Below it is a mass of dried blood, black skin, and what looks like a wound.

“Shit!” My voice rises. “I thought the dome had medics. Why haven’t you had that treated?”

His dark eyes roll in his head, and I see white briefly.

“Needed you,” he says, voice rougher than ever. “.”

He holds out his blood-soaked hand, and a thin chain dangles from it. His hand opens, and I catch the necklace before it falls.

“Blayn…is this…” I look up to see his eyes are closed, his body skewed sideways and his chest barely rising.

“Fuck!” I’m on my feet and across to the comm on the wall, shouting for help.

It arrives in the form of the burly bouncers from downstairs, and I’m aware I’m shouting at them to get medical help, to get the dome staff, to get anyone else before I’m back by Blayn’s side.

I know he doesn’t want me to touch him, but I can’t help it. I just can’t.

I take his hand. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it’s not rough. There are calluses on his palm, and I run my thumb over them, leaning in to see if his chest is still moving. His breath is shallow, but he’s still with me.

Gently, I brush a lock of his dark hair away from his face with my thumb and forefinger.

“It’s going to be okay, Blayn. Help is on its way and it’ll all be fine, I promise,” I whisper to him.

Blayn moans gently. One leg twitches but the eyes do not open. I squeeze his hand. I want to give him comfort, something other than the violence he’s used to, the violence which has damn near killed him.

Behind me I hear a commotion and the sound of feet. I don’t look away from Blayn. Instead I hold his hand and stroke my thumb over his forehead.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” I say, voice hoarse with my wishes, my need and desire for him not to die.

Not because he’s my client but because he is a living being and because, even injured, he insisted on coming to see me and giving me a gift.

My heart pulls so hard in my chest, I think it’s on a hook and line.

One tied directly to him.

“Move aside,” a medic snarls at me.

I move back, but I don’t let go of his hand. I couldn’t if I wanted to because he holds me tight.