The sand was still wet with blood when they pulled him from the arena. The roar of the crowd echoed like a storm behind him, but Kato barely heard it. His head rang with pain, vision blurred, body torn and bruised. He didn't care. He'd won. That was all that mattered.
Two attendants dragged him down the stone corridor and dumped him on the healer's table. She was already there, rolling up her sleeves.
"Don't move," she said, not looking at him.
He knew that voice. Calm. Cold. Always steady, no matter how much blood he left on her floor. Her name was Mira. She was smaller than most of the warriors she patched up, but none of them ever dared mouth off to her. Something in her eyes. Something that said she knew more about pain than any of them.
She set to work in silence, hands swift and practiced. He winced as she poured alcohol over the gash in his side.
"Still haven't learned to block that left swing," she said, not unkindly.
"I was distracted."
"By the man trying to cut your head off?"
"By the woman watching me do it."
That made her pause. She met his eyes, expression unreadable.
"Don't start."
"Why not? I might die tomorrow."
"You might die in ten minutes if you keep bleeding like this."
He grinned. It hurt. "Then grant me a dying man's wish."
She pressed a cloth into the wound hard enough to make him flinch. "You've had too many blows to the head."
"Still got enough sense to know what I want."
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Charged. He watched her fingers move, sure and efficient. She'd stitched him up more times than he could count. He'd watched those hands slide over his broken body again and again. Never once had she faltered. Never once had she touched him with anything other than purpose.
He wanted more than purpose.
When she tied off the last stitch, she stepped back, wiping her hands clean.
"You're done. Go sleep it off."
He didn't move. "You know what the House Warden offered me? Any reward. Anything."
She didn't answer.
He stood, slowly. Every muscle screamed. He ignored them.
"I asked for you."
That got her attention. Her eyes snapped to his.
"You what?"
"I told them I wanted a night with you."
"You bastard."
"You said I could die any day. What else do I have to lose?"
She turned, walking toward the shelf to grab more bandages, pretending she hadn't heard.
"You can't ask for people like prizes. I'm not a trophy."
"I know. That's why I want you. Not to win. Not to conquer. Just to feel something real before they throw me to the dogs again."
He moved closer. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her.
"Say no, and I'll leave. I won't touch you. Won't ask again."
Mira didn't speak for a long time. Her jaw was tight. Her breath shallow. But she didn't back away.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then show me."
She turned slowly. Her face was unreadable, but her hands trembled as she reached for his chest. Traced the bruises. The cuts. Her touch was no longer clinical.
"Lie back," she said.
He did. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.
She climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, fingers brushing over the edge of his bandages.
"This isn't love," she said.
"Good. I wouldn't know what to do with that."
She kissed him. Hard. Her hands in his hair, pulling, demanding. He met her with the same hunger. It wasn't gentle. Wasn't soft. It was raw, the collision of two people who had spent too long pretending they didn't feel what they did.
She undressed him slowly, tracing every scar, every bruise. Not with pity, but reverence. He stripped her down with shaking hands, drinking in every inch of her like a man dying of thirst. She wasn't delicate. She was steel wrapped in skin.
When she finally sank onto him, they both gasped.
She rode him slow at first, grinding her hips in tight, punishing circles. He groaned, hands on her thighs, letting her take what she wanted.
"Tell me when it hurts," she whispered.
"It hurts. Don't stop."
Her pace quickened. She leaned forward, lips at his throat, teeth scraping. He buried his face in her neck, breathing her in. Sweat. Blood. Salt. Her.
Their bodies slapped together, rhythm breaking, falling into something wild and uncoordinated. Not performance. Not perfection. Just need.
When she came, she bit his shoulder to keep from screaming. He followed with a groan, hips jerking, arms tight around her.
After, she didn't speak. Just lay with him, her head on his chest, hand over his heart.
It was the first time she'd ever let herself rest in his arms.
He knew better than to ask for more.
But he held her like he wanted it anyway.