Adriel loved this feeling of superiority, this power coursing through his veins. Every gaze was on his throne, where he sat like a living deity, with his wife on his lap. His fingers slid lazily over her thighs, not caring that hundreds of eyes were watching this blatant display of possessiveness. No, this only excited him more.

The fight below was intensifying. Blood soaked the sand of the arena, turning it into a dark mess. The crowd roared, demanding more spectacle, more blood, but Adriel barely noticed their cries, too absorbed in the way his wife flinched on his lap with each blow. Every little movement she made only made him tighten his arms around her waist. He could not—did not want to—let her move away, not even by an inch, even when she tried to get comfortable.

"Hush, my little bird," he purred, his lips trailing down her neck, leaving a wet line of kisses. "Let me distract you from this crude spectacle." His hand moved higher, savoring the softness of her skin beneath the thin fabric of her clothes.

What could be more important than the way she trembled in his arms? The way her breath caught in her throat each time the fighters struck? Certainly not this pathetic fight, which was supposed to be nothing more than entertainment for his little bird.

Blow. Her sigh. Blow. Her heartbeat quickening beneath his palm. Blow...That insolent, pathetic slave dared to look again. Adriel felt his own heart beat faster with rage—how dare Sloan look up to where his wife sat?! How many men had died for lesser insolence? He had lost count of the number of men he had sent to battle in the arena simply for staring too long at his treasure.