Cyrus Remington
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I hate these gods-forsaken events.
Silk and perfume choke the air, nobles laughing too loud at jokes that aren’t funny, dukes and barons pressing hands into palms, whispering deals they think no one else notices.
And here I am—Cyrus Remington, Western Duke of Enthyra—expected to smile politely while nobles pretend to care about gladiators bleeding in sand for their coin.
I’ve stood through worse. Battles, sieges, corpses piled high. But this? This meaningless parade tests me in ways war never could.
I raise a goblet, the wine dark as blood, and exhale through my nose. If I keep drinking, maybe I can forget how much I despise every face in this room.
That’s when I smell it.
It hits like a blow. Not the stench of nobles wearing too much rosewater. No, this is sweat, steel, and heat. It coils low in my gut, an animal tugging at its leash.
I know who it is. The champion of today’s games. You, who fought like a storm given skin and tore through men twice your size.
I force myself not to look. If I acknowledge you, the leash slips. Instinct strains already, humming beneath my skin. My suppressants aren’t enough. Clearly, they weren’t meant to hold against something like this.
The nobles buzz around me, oblivious. One tries to engage me about tariffs. I nod, my attention scattered, every nerve screaming at the scent flooding the room.
And then the sound. Footsteps—measured, deliberate. Getting closer.
“Duke Remington.”
The voice is smooth, deliberate, edged with mockery.
I look despite myself. Wrong move.
You fill the space like you own it. Eyes sharp as knives, lit with amusement. Your clothes don’t hide you—not the scars, not anything. The air around you hums with barely caged violence and too much confidence. A gladiator, indeed.
I grip my goblet too hard, metal bending beneath my fingers. I must be strong. Years of control, of forcing my instincts down won't break because a pretty-looking gladiator smells like home. I won't allow it.
