Page 2 of Impaled By His Omega Prince
I’m an imbecile.
Chapter Two
Askara
A streak of blood smeared along Askara’s arm, following the slow drag of his wrist over swollen lips.
His opponent got the better of him. It happened.
He snarled, tasting the coppery blood as he stood straighter. A sharp breath sent bloody spittle flying as dozens of voices around him cheered. “To the death!”
Whether it was Askara’s or his opponent’s, it was of no consequence. Death didn’t bother him.
Losing didn’t bother him.
It was winning that did.
Reminding himself to fight, he stood on shaking legs and eyed his opponent. Makeshift stands along the great dining hall bore the weight of commoners from kingdoms away, parting from coin with careless abandon on sex, gambling, and the odd pellet of compressed sunderleaf. And while he was no stranger to the leaf while in pain, sobriety was his preferred existence.
The male before him bared pretty white teeth in a snarl as he choked up on a thick spear that he hefted with little effort, the hilt and pommel intimidating in his grip. Despite being a good six inches shorter than Askara, the male was easily a quarter again as wide and radiating pure, raw power. So similar to his own.
He drew his own sword and eyed the distance between them. The stranger would have the advantage, but that meant little to him as he cut his gaze toward the spectator box for his patrons. The alpha-omega couple that had taken over the castle almost two years prior, turning the place into a den of debauchery with Askara as a prime attraction. He sold much interest as a dusk blood warrior, bastard nobility of Liaberos. Adusk blood with strange features and branded over his body with old runes restraining his thalmic power.
Cilan, the alpha of the couple, met his gaze and gave a very discreet gesture, his thumb pointing downward. In response, Askara nodded.Message received.
The betting pool ended within the first minute of a fight, and with Askara’s training, strength, and obedience, it was hard to lose. This made every fight, and the subsequent betting and profits, rely solely on Askara’s will. And Askara’s will was at the mercy of whoever governed the castle. The magic imbedded in his flesh said so.
Askara had to make a show of it, dodging the spear of his opponent with a slide across the floor. The great dining hall echoed with the voices of vagrants and lowborn races of other lands. The odd dwarf peppered the benches among elves, a few half orcs—who had enough diplomacy and morals to be granted travel permits—or just clever enough to escape their continent. Someone said once they even heard a human was there, though that hadn’t ever been confirmed.
The newcomer had the vote. The fight needed to be thrown. Askara dodged another strike, rotating to press his body into the long handle as it grazed his leather armor. The fulcrum strength knocked the male off-balance, causing his feet to scrabble on the worn flagstone floor. With a tilt of his foot and slide of his leg, Askara’s opponent fell backward, faster than he thought as the male twisted his hips, changing his center of gravity.
Askara had barely a moment to correct himself before his opponent centered his mass with the spear, bent low, and thrusted the stave upward, catching him under the arm at such a perfect angle that with a disturbingly shallow flick, his arm went limp, burning like hellfire.
“Goddess, damn you!” Askara’s off-hand swung lamely at his side, a steady stream of blood seeping into his leathers, dampening his linen shirt.
“I don’t follow the goddess. She probably already has, dusk blood!” The male before Askara, definitely fae, pale like the sun fae often were, appeared different to the usual sallow, willowy males. He had heft to him, a rough countenance to his face, a rugged jawline, and muscles that curved and moved like silk beneath his milky skin. But he was wrong; Askara was no dusk blood. He didn’t correct him, though.
He wanted to stare forever at the male, the scarlet hair, the smooth skin of his chin. And eyes, Askara couldn’t pay attention to the fight for those eyes as green as fresh sunderleaf, pale and cast with a near yellowed hue beneath the gentle fuzz of each leaf.
Askara, with his good hand, slung his sword, tilting the blade ever so slightly to alter the flow of his swing, glancing off his defensive strike to send his blade into a hard bounce away. He was grateful he needed to throw the fight because he would have done himself harm to disobey his patrons.
As a well-trained swordsman, a twist of his wrist would have stabilized his blade, but as a well-trained swordsman turned actor…Askara’s wrist bent back, the blade too top heavy to be supported by his wrist with that much velocity. And when his shoulder flew back, the blade leaving his fingertips, his opponent lunged in, hesitating. Eyes, the most beautiful shade, narrowed shrewdly, halting in a moment of realization. It was unmistakable when their eyes met. HeknewAskari threw the fight.
He diverted his spear at the last minute, the worn tip of it glancing off the top of Askara’s thigh with bruising force, tearing the leather of his pants. The diversion cost him a second, and Askara took the opportunity to snatch the stave of the spear andwrench it free of his grasp in a locked grapple. Pure adrenaline fueled the motion as the weapon clattered to the ground. He had to make it look real. Askara had to lose.
Panic lit those sunderleaf eyes, and Askara didn’t have to act. The moment caught him off guard as a scent as sweet as iskellia blossoms, sharp as flashpine sap, and full of a rich musk laden with something so close to spice hit his nostrils. It was a treat of a scent that he’d not had the privilege of taking in for quite some time.Unclaimed omega.
He couldn’t resist the aroma, the hesitation costing Askara that moment. He faltered, swept off his feet by a stocky, solid leg. The spear, knocked too far away to be reachable, spun to a stop, but the sharp ring of metal on stone met his ears. “Omega…”
A wet sound broke through. A sharp, cold pain pulsed in his chest, and hot blood rushed through his ears all in the blink of an eye.
The cheering crowd turned to boos and swears as Askara blanched and choked before staring down at his own sword protruding from his chest.
The omega raised a booted foot and pushed Askara to the ground, twisting the blade at an angle as he fell. “The name is Lumic, dusk blood.”
The most un-omegalike male he’d ever seen, and in his chest burned more than the sword.
Lust.
