“Come,” Master said, taking my arm and linking it through his. He led me away from 901’s cell without another word.

Master walked us to the stand and up onto his seat. The stands were packed, and several males came up to talk to Master. A male with an unusual accent came up to Master and shook his hand. I didn’t listen to what they said as I tried to breathe through the pain from Master’s strikes. But I heard that 901’s opponent belonged to this male. He owned a gulag somewhere named Prague. 901’s opponent was also undefeated.

Nerves racked my body on hearing that fact. Fear and trepidation were wrapping me in their embrace. I knew that Master was not going to make this match easy for 901. He wanted to assert his dominance. He wanted his champion to obey.

Master moved to his seat and pointed to the floor at his feet. I sat down, lowering my eyes from the looks I was receiving from the male spectators. Master rested his hand on my head and lazily combed through my hair. A guard moved into the pit and Master signaled for the match to begin.

I heard the pounding of feet carrying through the tunnel. When a male broke through, my heart fell. This male was bigger than 901. He was covered in black tattoos and was dark skinned. As he ran around the pit, two daggers in his hands, I balked when I saw his back. Lash scars marred every inch of skin. The warrior drew to a halt. When he looked to his master in the stands, there was nothing in his stare. It was blank, devoid of life.

Like he had nothing left to live for.

Master signaled again to the guard. When the guard disappeared, it was only seconds before 901 came running out. My heart beat in a heady rhythm as his perfectly toned body entered the pit. His blades were drawn, and for a moment I feared he would slay 175, his opponent, in seconds. But as 175 ran at 901, he ducked left but left himself open to be struck. I winced as 175 sliced the edge of his dagger across 901’s chest. Master’s hand had stilled on my hair as 901 entered the pit, but seeing him complying with his demands, Master relaxed. I could do no such thing.

901 toyed with his opponent, circling the pit. His opponent didn’t move as quickly, nor was he as agile. But just as Master commanded, 901 took blows from 175. He gave serious, but not lethal, blows back.

With every slice and every cut gained, I waited with bated breath for Master to give 901 the signal to kill. But the minutes dragged on and Master remained relaxed in his seat.

175 suddenly charged 901, obviously tired of the charade. His hard expression showed his want and need to kill. But as 175 struck out with his dagger, stabbing through 901’s thigh, 901’s eyes drifted to Master in the stands. I froze, along with 901, waiting for Master’s order. None came. Just before he looked away, 901 met my eyes. My heart broke when I saw this tender stare.

More minutes passed, both fighters dripping blood. I had to distance myself mentally from the excited roar of the crowd. Just when I feared Master was going to allow 901 to die waiting for his sign, he sat forward in his seat. I looked to the pit just in time to see 901 catch Master’s flick of the wrist. 901’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. He slid to the sandy floor, slicing the back of 175’s thighs. 175 dropped to the sand, his ability to stand stripped away. 901 stood to tower over him and finished 175 with one final stab into his throat, 901’s blades running him through.

Blood ran freely from the wound as 175 drained of life. 901 panted heavily on the spot, glaring down at his kill. The crowd jumped to their feet in celebration, but their cries were muted to my ears. I watched as 901 took hold of his Kindjals’ handles and wrenched them from 175’s throat. 901 then wiped his blades clean on 175’s lifeless torso.

901 turned to stare up at Master. He had a bloodthirsty look in his eyes as he stared the older male down. His legs and arms twitched. For a spilt second, I felt he was about to fight his way up the stands to end Master’s reign. Fortunately, 901 planted his feet into the sand and waited to be dismissed. He was covered head to toe in blood, a mixture of 175’s and his own. His blue eyes were wild, and he looked every inch the killer his reputation boasted.

Eventually, Master stood and flicked his wrist in dismissal. 901 turned to run down the tunnel, but not before glancing back and staring at me with desperate eyes. He was silently telling me that he had done this for me. He had taken this beating, endured these injuries, for me.

My heart almost leapt from my body. The feelings rushing through me, knowing he had done this for me, were filling me with the brightest of lights.

Master stood and congregated with some of the crowd. A few minutes later a guard came to me and ordered me to stand. I winced as I did. My pulse raced when I was led in the direction of the champions’ quarters. With each step I gasped for breath at the bruising on my stomach, cheek, and ribs. But that pain was overridden the closer I came to 901’s cell.

As we made our way through the narrow hallways, I wondered why Master was doing this. I believed I wouldn’t be given back to 901, no matter the outcome of the match. But from the minute the match ended, Master had ignored me just like he did when I was first given to 901. Like he had to distance himself from what he was about to let happen.

I racked my brain for answers, but when I arrived at 901’s cell, those questions fled my mind. Right then, I didn’t care about the consequences. I was here with 901. He had fought for me. Obeyed for me.

I wanted this with all my heart.

When the guard opened the door, a chiri was just finishing sewing up 901’s wounds. The blood that had been covering his skin was now covering the towels on the floor.

901 looked up at me in the doorway. Just as the chiri made the final stitch to the wound on his chest, 901 knocked her hand away and got to his feet. His large body swayed and his face screwed up in pain. Then his eyes fell on mine and never moved.

The chiri gathered her things and quickly fled the room. The guard slammed the door shut behind her. We simply continued to stare. The ragged wounds from days ago and today had ravaged his muscled body. His hair was slick with the remnants of the bloody fight and sweat. He looked beaten and torn.

901 suddenly stepped forward. My heart leapt into my throat as he approached. With a gentleness I wasn’t expecting, 901 lifted his hand and ran his finger softly beside the sprouting bruise on my cheek and the broken cut on my bottom lip. “You are hurt,” he whispered, a deep pain to his rough voice.

And he spoke to me in Russian. He spoke in our language.

Reaching out, I placed my hand on his shoulder, the only nontainted area on his body. “So are you,” I whispered in response.