KELSEY’S POV

Right now, pain was the only thing I could feel.

My head was pounding, and every breath made my chest hurt. Warm blood trickled down my cheeks and I tried to lift my hand to wipe it away, but my arm barely moved. I was lying on the arena floor, staring up at the gray sky above me.

The crowd was still shouting, but the sound seemed far away. My ears were ringing so badly that I could barely make out the words.

I tried to move my legs. But I couldn't feel it either.

My chest heaved as I fought to pull air into my aching lungs. What happened to me? I thought, my mind spinning. I remembered the wolf standing over me, his claws against my skin. Then the heat… that strange heat inside my chest.

I tried to sit up. But another sharp pain tore through my ribs, forcing me back down.

“Don't move.” A familiar voice came from somewhere above me.

My heart skipped. I slowly opened my eyes. A tall figure stood over me.

Theodore. The God of War.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

He had jumped from the platform. Was he here to finish what the wolf had started?

I tried to move away from him, but my body refused to cooperate. I was completely helpless. I braced myself, waiting for his boot to slam into my ribs, or for his sword to pierce my neck, to finish off the wolfless slave who dared cause a ruckus in his arena.

Instead, he dropped to one knee beside me. His large hand reached down. And out of reflex, I flinched, closing my eyes tight, expecting pain.

I felt one arm slide beneath my back and another beneath my knees.

With zero effort, he lifted me off the dirt floor and pulled me up against his chest.

The moment his skin made contact with mine, a strange electric zap shot straight through my body, chasing the ice-cold numbness in my limbs. It was a sweet, overwhelming warmth that made my head roll back against his shoulders.

A rich, earthy scent filled my nose… like pine wood and rain after a summer storm. My mind grew heavy. It was as if I was completely intoxicated by his presence.

I had spent my entire life learning that people's hands meant pain; My father’s hand, my stepmother, the guards’ hands. Hands that grabbed, shoved, slapped, and punished.

But Theodore, the dreadful God of war whose hands were known to have taken thousands of lives, was holding me carefully, as if he was afraid of hurting me.

“Hold on,” his deep voice grumbled right against my ear.

I opened my eyes and stared at him. His face was only inches from mine. He wasn’t looking down at me with disgust or anger. No… he was looking at me with… concern.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, but he didn't answer. He simply started walking.

The arena was still watching us.

I could hear the whispers now.

“Is that Theodore?”

“Why is he carrying her?”

“He has never chosen any of the tributes.”

I looked up at the man holding me like I was someone important. He didn't seem to care about their whispers.

“Brother, wait,” a loud voice cut through the arena. Dylan. He stepped into our path, blocking the exit. “You can't take her.” He added, his voice laced with clear greed. “She's a breeder from Silvermoon.”

Theodore stopped. I felt his arms tighten around me. “She isn't going to anyone.” He said softly.

Dylan scoffed. “You don't get to decide that.”

“I just did.”

Dylan stepped closer. I instinctively pressed myself against Theodore. His arm tightened around my waist.

Dylan seemed to notice. He stared at me with a creepy smile, his eyes running down my torn dress and my bloody face.

“Get out of my way, Dylan.”

“She just displayed some kind of power,” he said. “You saw what she did. She's valuable.”

I didn't like the way he said ‘valuable’, like I was an asset.

“She belongs to the Pack,” Dylan continued. “If Father hasn't chosen a place for her, then there's no reason I can't…”

“Don't finish that sentence.” Theodore's voice had changed. I could hear the warning in it.

Dylan hesitated. Then he laughed. “You're serious?”

Theodore stared at him. “Move, Dylan. Don't make me repeat myself.”

“No.” Dylan stepped closer and reached toward me. “We should share her. You don't get to...”

Before Dylan could touch me, Theodore snapped. The next minute, his boot slammed right into his brother's chest.

Dylan let out a choked gasp and flew backward, crashing hard onto his back in the dirt, rolling several times before coming to a stop.

The arena went silent.

I stared at Theodore. He simply stood there holding me with one arm while looking at his brother as if he were deciding whether to kill him.

“Touch her,” Theodore growled, staring down at his brother with glowing red eyes, “and I'll rip your throat out.”

Dylan lay in the dirt, coughing up blood, as he stared at Theodore with terror and pure hatred. But he didn’t dare get up. “You're choosing a slave over your own brother?”

Theodore didn't answer. He turned and continued walking.

My mind was struggling to understand what had just happened.

He had protected me. From his own brother. Why? I was nothing to him. I was supposed to be a sacrifice, a replacement, a girl sent here because her father didn't want to give up his favorite daughter.

Yet Theodore was carrying me as though I belonged in his arms.

The long stone hallways of the Blackmoon fortress were dark. Every guard we passed instantly bowed their heads to the floor, terrified to even look Theodore in the eye. He paid them no attention, marching with long strides down the corridor until we reached a set of heavy mahogany doors.

He kicked the doors open, carried me inside and kicked them shut.

The room was huge. A large stone fireplace burned softly in the corner, throwing warm orange light across a massive king-sized bed covered in dark furs.

Right then, a cold realization hit me. This was his private chamber.

He walked over to the bed and carefully laid me down on the soft furs. His hands lingered on my waist for a second longer than necessary before he pulled back.

"Stay here," he ordered quietly. His dark eyes swept over my battered body, lingering on the red blood staining my face and dress. "I'm getting water."

I lay on the soft bed, my heart pounding against my ribs, my mind in complete chaos.

Why was the terrifying God of War carrying me in his arms?

Why did he kick his own brother for trying to touch me? And why did my body react so strangely every time he laid a finger on my skin?

Before I could figure out an answer, he returned from the adjoining room. He carried a wooden basin filled with warm water and a clean white cloth.

He pulled a wooden chair right beside the bed and sat down. Without saying a word, he dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and gently raised it toward my face.

"Don't move," he murmured.

I flinched back into the pillows, my hands clutching the sheets. "Why are you doing this?" I rasped, my throat raw and dry. "I'm just a slave... a breeder from a defeated Pack. You're supposed to hate me."

Theodore froze for a second. He looked up, his dark eyes locking straight into mine. There was something intense in his gaze.

"You aren't a slave to me," he said firmly, his voice low and raspy.

He reached out and gently pressed the warm cloth against my bloody forehead.

I winced at the sting, but for someone with a reputation like his, his hand was soft. He wiped away the dried blood, his thumb brushing softly against my cheekbone. The touch was so gentle it made my breath catch in my throat.

I had spent my entire life being beaten, kicked, and humiliated by my father and everyone in the pack. No one had ever treated me like this before. Yet here he was doing the exact opposite….

He dipped the cloth into the water again, turning his attention down toward my body. The dark blood from my collarbone had soaked through the collar of my torn dress.

"Your clothes are ruined," Theodore said, his voice tight. "I need to clean the wounds on your shoulders."

He reached out and unbuttoned the top three buttons of my dress, pulling the fabric back to expose my shoulders.

I held my breath, terror suddenly spiking in my chest.

Theodore leaned in with the cloth, but the moment the fabric parted, his hand stopped dead in mid-air.

He stared down at my chest and shoulders, his face turning ghostly pale.

The soft orange light danced across my skin, exposing line after line of thick scars. Jagged whip marks covered my collarbones, old iron burns crossed my ribs, and deep cuts lined my skin.

It was the proof of ten years of brutal torture in the Silvermoon castle.

The silence in the room became unbearable. The warm, protective air instantly turned cold.

Theodore raised his eyes slowly, looking at me with a dangerous, sharp glare that made my blood run cold. “Who did this to you?”

I looked down, afraid to meet his gaze. “It's nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

I nodded. “Yes. It's nothing.”

He leaned closer. “Alyssa.” His jaw clenched. “You were raised as a princess of Silvermoon.”

“So why,” he asked, his voice low, “does your body look like you've spent your life as a slave?”