Page 85 of Empire of Wrath and Ruin
Her expression shifted, something warm and proud lighting her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you? You'd give up the throne voluntarily."
"No one should have the power my father wields," I said firmly. "The ability to enslave entire populations, to turn thinking beings into weapons, to decide life and death for millions with a casual word—it's too much for any one person."
"I didn't think it was possible to love you more than I already did," she whispered, her hand coming up to cup my cheek. "But hearing you say that..."
I kissed her then, pouring all my fear and determination and desperate love into the contact. She responded immediately, her arms winding around my neck as she pressed closer. The taste of her, the warmth of her skin, the soft sound she made against my lips—it all combined to drive away the cold dread that had been eating at me. I kissed her again, harder this time. Heat flared through me like wildfire, consuming the doubt, the fear, the weight of my father’s shadow. Her body pressed to mine, warm and yielding, and for once I didn’t feel like a prince or a pawn—I just felt like a man who wanted the woman in his arms more than air.
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me closer until our teeth clashed. She gasped against my mouth, and I swallowed the sound hungrily. My hands slid down her back, curving over the swell of her hips, tugging her closer into my lap until she straddled me. The torchlight painted her in gold and shadow, every breathless shift of her body striking sparks through my veins.
She broke the kiss only long enough to whisper my name, shaky and low, and the sound wrecked me. I cupped her face, kissing her again, softer, slower, tasting her like I’d never have the chance again. My thumbs brushed the edges of her jaw while her hands roamed down my chest, exploring, claiming.
Her hips shifted against mine, deliberately or not I couldn’t tell, but it drew a groan from deep in my chest. I bit gently at her lower lip, and she gasped, arching closer. Saints, I could have drowned in her right there—forgotten the palace above, the festival, the cages, the coup. Forgotten everything but her.
“Livia,” I murmured against her mouth, half prayer, half plea.
Her answer was another kiss, long and slow and searing, until the scrape of Marcus’s boots snapped me back to where we were.
“Really?” Marcus’s voice was a low growl. “You two planning to start a dynasty down here, or are we sneaking into a palace this morning?”
Livia laughed breathlessly, burying her face against my shoulder. I pressed my forehead to hers, chest heaving, still trembling from how close I’d come to forgetting myself entirely.
“When this is over,” I whispered against her ear, only for her, “I want you to myself. Hours. No interruptions. We’ll celebrate properly.”
Her breath shivered against my neck. “That’s a promise,” she whispered back.
“And I’ll always be Jalend to you and the guys,” I murmured. “That name feels more like me than my old one.”
I stole one more quick, fierce kiss before letting her slide from my lap. My hands already ached at the loss. Around us, Antonius kept his eyes on his sword with exaggerated concentration, Tarshi smirked faintly, Septimus watched the door as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, and Taveth’s shadows flickered like restless wings.
As if summoned by his words, a soft pattern of knocks echoed through the chamber—three short, two long, one short. Mira's signal. Marcus moved to the hidden door, checking the peephole before sliding back the bolt.
Two figures slipped inside like shadows given form. Kitchen servants, by their rough clothes and calloused hands, but their eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that marked them as far more than they appeared.
"The palace is crawling with guards," the older woman whispered, her voice barely audible above the distant sounds of celebration. "But most of the city watch has been pulled to arena duty. The Emperor wants every seat filled for his grand spectacle."
"The prisoners?"
“I will take you to them,” she said.
The tunnels smelled of mould and old blood. My boots echoed on the stones as we followed Mira’s contacts deeper beneath the palace, each step taking us further into the bowels of the beast. The air grew colder, damper, until my breath came out in pale mist.
We reached the dungeon gates at last, iron bars twisted into snarling shapes of dragons and wolves. My pulse quickened. This was it. If the prisoners were still here, if we could free them, we’d have the beginnings of an army before the Games even started.
I shoved the gate open, the hinges shrieking loud enough to wake the dead. We rushed inside.
Empty.
The torches flickered across rows of cells, each one a hollow cage of stone and shadow. Chains hung limp from the walls, manacles lying open on the floor. Straw mats lay scattered, some still damp from spilled water. But there were no people.
My stomach dropped.
Livia pressed a hand to her middle, face paling. “We’re too late.” Her voice cracked, the words almost a whisper.
I ran my fingers along the stone wall, feeling for the telltale scratches prisoners might have left. There—crude marks carved into the mortar, some still showing fresh stone dust. "They were here, Livia. Hundreds of them, just like my father promised."
I moved deeper into the dungeons, checking each cell as if the prisoners might somehow be hiding in plain sight. The chains were still warm. Fresh straw scattered the floors. They'd been moved recently—hours, maybe less.
"The arena," Marcus said grimly from behind me. "They've already transported them."
