Free In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal by Nasia Maksima

looked up, it was directly into Hektor Actaeon’s deep blue eyes. The man offered Lucan a hand up, and Lucan took it, grateful for the stoicism of gladiators. Hektor would not ask what had happened.
    “Back to practice,” he said and nudged Lucan toward his fallen net.
    Even that casual touch burned Lucan hotter than any brand. He felt it linger on his skin, an indelible mark, as though Hektor had claimed him for his own.
    Desire flamed across his cheeks. Dear Rilrune in Oversky, let him not see!
    They sparred for what seemed an eternity, until Lucan’s arms were rubbery and he could no longer cast his net, until his legs trembled and his entire body burned with the fire of fatigue. Hektor pushed him, putting him through his paces like a bestiarius would a rare beast in front of a crowd.
    Before slaughtering it.
    Finally, Stratos seemed to grow bored of the constant repetition and took his leave. After that, Hektor relaxed visibly. He went easier on Lucan but still worked him hard, urging him past the limits of his endurance.
    But he seemed kinder in Stratos’s absence.
    And just when Lucan felt he would stumble, fall into the sand, and never get up—
    “That’s enough for today.” Hektor lowered his shield. He turned and walked toward the shaded portico, to where small tables and chairs had been set out for the fighters. He gestured as he went, and one of the houseboys ran off to the interior of the theatre.
    Lucan followed the primus palus.
    “Come.” Hektor placed his longspear and shield on a rack strewn with other fighters’ weapons. He reached for Lucan to hand him the trident.
    Lucan complied, their sweaty fingers brushing for the briefest moment. He felt his blush intensify, and hoped Hektor would think him sun-addled rather than captivated. Still, he ducked his head.
    “Sit.” Hektor indicated a chair and then dropped into his, resting his corded biceps on the table. All around them, gladiators and their trainers reclined, taking wine and relaxation while others toiled out in the hot sun. The whipping slap of wood on flesh echoed across the amphitheatre as the trainers used their canes to inspire greater ferocity in their fighters.
    Lucan noticed that Hektor Actaeon carried no cane. Mayhap he had other ways to inspire his novices. Stop it, Lucan.
    The houseboy returned, a decanter of wine on his shoulder and two mugs dangling from tanned fingers. He set the cups before them on the table and poured. The wine was a rich red summer-wine, its scent fruity and heady. To Lucan, it seemed an extravagance. House Pineus had not been able to afford such luxuries, its dwindling stable of fighters subsisting on overfermented beer.
    “A glorious death,” Hektor said, raising his cup.
    Lucan took up his own mug and tried not to gulp down the warm wine. This, perhaps, was even harder than sparring against the great primus palus. He forced himself to set the mug down after a few long pulls.
    “Gratitude,” he said by way of thanks, but Hektor wasn’t meeting his gaze.
    Hektor was looking at Lucan’s chest, his sky-blue eyes storming over as he stared.
    The Ebon.
    Reflexively, Lucan brought his hand up, to hide the brand, to protect it. But there was nothing there. The strange dark mark had healed, leaving not even a scar.
    He shrank back from the memory of the slaver-consul plowing him, carving into him. Now that the terror had faded, now that the dark spell seemed only a memory, Lucan could not help but revel in the memory of the rough handling. The nails scraping on his scalp as he took the slaver’s cock, the feel of the slaver’s dick hard and rooting in his ass.
    Hektor was staring right at Lucan’s pectoral, where Alession had carved the dark mark.
    Somehow, Lucan found shame in it. “What?”
    “Nothing.” Hektor shook his head so hard his black ponytail swayed across his shoulders.
    Lucan watched the sensual swing of that luxurious hair, and suddenly he wanted to run his fingers through it. Hair of