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Amery awoke to the sound of shouting, metal on metal, and the screams of dying men. As he bolted upright in his tent, he barely had time to pull on his boots before a lean, armored wolf burst in, cutting a hole in the canvas' side wall. Yelping, the caracal scrambled to pick up his twin daggers, snatching them from the side of his bedroll as the intruding soldier slowly advanced.

“Now now, pretty kitty. You don't want me to scratch that handsome face of yours, do you? Why don't you put down those toys and — " The wolf lunged at Amery suddenly, almost snagging his wrist.

The feline danced back, taking up a fighting stance. He bounced on the balls of his feet, twirling the daggers in his paws before raising them in front of himself, lips curving into a snarl. “You'll not lay a paw on me, mongrel!"

The enemy soldier laughed. “Oh, you're feisty, aren't you? You'll make a welcome addition to my bedchamber. I promise, I'll treat you real good, kitten — OW! Bastard!" the wolf hissed in pain as Amery sliced at him, expertly weaving between the armor on his arm to nick the soft flesh beneath.

“I'm not just some decoration, and I wouldn't have you if you were dipped in gold. You're repulsive, dog. Now, you'd better run, before I carve you to ribbons. We're loyal to Emperor Rethji to our last breaths!" Amery prayed the wolf wouldn't see how he was trembling. He was a medic; he was more skilled with treating injuries than creating them. The idea of taking a life made him sick to his stomach, and yet here he was. The crown prince, playing doctor in the middle of a war zone. He'd trained almost his whole life to be a soldier, even learning the secret martial techniques of his father's imperial house. So why wasn't he able to stop shaking? Killing was a part of war. It should be easy, but…

“Your loyalty is misplaced, kitten." The canine had a wicked glint in his eye as he advanced on Amery. He loomed over the cat, easily over six feet tall compared to Amery's five-foot-eight. The wolf licked his chops and chuckled wickedly. “Your precious royal family is dead, cat. They've been dead for almost a week, now. It only took one of our soldiers to do it, too; wiped them all out in an evening."

The caracal's entire body stilled, and a chilling numbness spread from the pit of his stomach out to the tips of his limbs. “You're lying," he said flatly. “You must be lying. There's no way one man could take out my — the royal family and their guards on his own."

“Man! I knew word moved slow around these parts, but you really didn't know? Kitten, that's just sad. You're fighting a war you already lost. Come on; I don't want to scar that pretty face of yours, but I will if you make me." The wolf lunged suddenly at Amery, arms outstretched to grab the feline. Amery flinched, his arms raised in front of his face, bracing for impact…

THUD

A heavy weight collided with him, toppling Amery to the ground. The breath was driven out of him, and he choked, gasping for air that he couldn't quite suck down. The wolf's body was warm, almost hot, and he writhed on top of Amery for a moment before slowly twitching, then going still. A hot liquid poured over the caracal's paws, soaking into his shirt and trickling down his sides to pool on the ground beneath him. With a groan, Amery rolled the wolf off of him, and scrambled to his feet. “You'll not take me that easily, you —"

The feline stopped, his breath catching in his throat. The feline stopped, his breath catching in his throat, as he realized his daggers, which had pulled free from his paws during the struggle, were embedded in the wolf's chest. Amery choked out a sob. Rushing toward the soldier, he tried in vain to find a pulse, then habitually went to attempt chest compressions before it sank in that his patient's heart was destroyed. There was no way to save this wolf.

And why should I? He was trying to enslave me, to make me his bed-warmer! He was awful; he was evil; he was… alive. He was alive, and now he's not.

And it's all my fault…

The caracal kneeled next to the wolf's body, utter despair washing through him. Tears streamed from his eyes as Amery silently sobbed, wiping uselessly at his eyes with the back of a bloody paw. He didn't even notice when more wolves came in behind him; he only felt the crack of a blunt object against the back of his skull, and as everything faded to black, he let himself succumb to the blessed, cold numbness.

I don't want to feel this pain.

This is what I deserve.

I don't deserve to live free in a world where I'm a killer…

…

TWO WEEKS LATER

…

Amery filed into a large, circular structure made of interconnected stone arches along with several other men in chains. Most were older — and none were younger — than he, and he was the only caracal in the group. He wasn't the only cat, though; about half of the group were felines, the rest a mix of mustelids and even a couple canines. There were about twenty slaves being marched into the coliseum, Amery guessed. He couldn't quite see everyone, given his short stature, but he had taken a headcount when they were being packed into the wagons. A guard — a portly boar with arms and thighs as thick as tree trunks — shoved his shoulder against the feline's back. “You're not here to sightsee, slave! Get moving, or we'll whip you even worse this time!"

Amery sucked a gasp through his teeth, his back still raw and bloody. An elderly otter had been slow to move this morning, and Amery had jumped in front of the lash meant for him. This had made the guards furious, and both the otter and Amery had been threatened with a vicious beating at the hands of their captors. Amery had insisted that he take the punishment for them both, unable to bear to see the old otter injured if he could help it. His captors had been all too easy to convince.

As he picked up the pace, trying to ignore the stinging in his back, Amery walked along a maze of corridors before eventually being led outside into the center of the coliseum. A small, circular wooden platform stood in the center of the sandy field inside, and the fat boar who had shoved Amery earlier walked up to speak to a slender male cheetah dressed in fine white linen robes who stood on the elevated platform. The caracal couldn't hear what they said, but shortly thereafter, he noticed the cheetah pointing at him and glaring at… the boar? And the guard looked embarrassed, too…

I wonder what that's about? It can't be good for me, though. Amery looked away, not wanting to be punished for staring, but didn't have long before the cheetah shouted, “Look this way, all of you! I'm not going to repeat myself."

All the slaves, and most of the guards, turned to face the source of this commanding voice. It surprised Amery that such a slight, almost effeminate feline would have a deep, resonant voice like that, and he idly wondered if he could learn such a thing. The cheetah continued, “My name is Hawley, and I'm in charge of acquisitions. That includes food, medicine, new talent, and, yes, slaves. From today onward, you'll be serving one of our gladiators. I'll bring them out in a moment, and they'll pick from among you."

“There are four gladiators in need of help today; If you are not chosen, you will have the honor of fighting for your lives and freedom in the coliseum. Perform well there, and you can buy your contract out. Household slaves; you will earn your freedom by pleasing your master. They and they alone have the power to release you from your contracts, so be attentive and perform your duties diligently. That is all; you'll be given further instructions from your gladiator, if chosen, or from me if not." The cheetah snapped his fingers, and a door opened off to the side of the arena. “Come along, gladiators!"

Four of the largest, burliest men Amery had ever seen ambled onto the field, walking with a languid saunter. One wolf, all gray and black with a black four-pointed star on his forehead, stood head and shoulders above the rest with a fierce scowl on his face. The wolf slammed a fist into his paw, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders before starting at the end of the line furthest from Amery. He oozed violence like a miasma, and the caracal shuddered. Gods, I hope I don't get him. I'd rather take my chances in the arena — Bile rose in his throat, bitter and hot on the back of his tongue, when he remembered that would mean he'd have to kill again. Swallowing it down, he straightened his back as much as possible and hoped another gladiator would take him in.

After a few minutes, a thickly muscled coyote stopped in front of Amery. He almost walked past, but seemed to do a double take before turning around to face the caracal. “You there," he said, pointing at Amery. “Can you cook?"

The feline's mouth went dry and cottony, and he swallowed hard. Unable to speak, he simply nodded an affirmative.

“Hm. Quiet. I like that, too. Turn around, kitten. Let me see that backside." Amery grumbled, but did as he was told, turning in a slow, shuffling circle before turning to face the wolf. The gladiator hissed when he saw the feline's back. “Stars above, what happened to you?"

Amery shrugged, swallowing twice. “I was disobedient, sir. That's all."

“Disobedient, huh?" The wolf looked thoughtful, before suddenly backhanding Amery.

The caracal was stunned, both from the surprise and from the blow. He collapsed to his knees, looking up at the gladiator. “What —"

A kick to the ribs drove the air out of the feline and cut off his question. “You don't ask the questions here, slave! I do! You're damn near perfect, but if you're gonna be disobedient, I'll have to train that out of you. You'll make a good pet, won't you kitten?"

Anger roiled behind Amery's eyes, and he saw red. Unsheathing his claws, he swiped at the wolf, who dodged the hobbled feline with ease. Still, Amery found his voice, and spat, “What is it with you all calling me “pet" and “kitten"?! If you're going to treat me like some kind of prize, you can fucking earn me, you bastard!"

The guards moved to bring out their whips, but the gladiator held up a paw to stop them. “I got this one, boys." He crouched down, and faster than Amery was able to see, the wolf had dashed to him, a monstrous paw wrapped around the feline's throat. He lifted the caracal off the ground with one arm, punching Amery repeatedly while throttling him.

The caracal couldn't get a breath in, and foamy drool leaked from the corner of his mouth, dribbling onto the gladiator's arm. His chained paws dangled uselessly, trapped beneath the trunk-like arm that strangled him. He tried to kick the wolf, but he was weakening rapidly, and the wolf either batted his strikes away or just took it without so much as flinching. Amery's vision started graying around the edges, and everything went hazy, like a white fog was moving in. This is it, Amery thought. I'm going to repay my debt sooner than I thought. Mother, Father… I'm sorry —

CRACK!

A tremendous snapping sound accompanied by a scream pierced his failing ears, and suddenly he was face-down in the sand. He gasped for breath, sucking down huge gulps of air despite how his throat burned. The caracal wasn't able to muster the strength to move, and so he lay in the sand, eyes closed, thanking whatever lucky stars were shining down on him for the gift of air.

Heavy pawsteps thudded closer to him, and an enormous paw grabbed him by the shoulder, roughly flipping him face-up. Amery groaned and squirmed as sand rubbed into the still-raw wounds that crisscrossed his back, but he still couldn't quite sit up. He cracked open his eyes and saw a blurry gray and white blob so large it took up his entire field of vision. “Wha —"

“Fuck, Gareth really did a number on you." The blob spoke, its voice deep and smoky, with just the hint of a rasp. “You, slave. Do you cook?"

Amery grunted, gritting his teeth. He blinked a few times, and his vision sharpened again. His newly focused eyes widened. The behemoth form of the vicious wolf from earlier crouched above him, his piercing sky-blue eyes studying Amery intently. The caracal's eyes traced over shirtless lupine's torso — the thickly muscled neck and shoulders, and the corded bulge of his upper arms, before darting back to those dazzling eyes. That black four-pointed star stood out amongst the fur on the wolf's forehead, and he almost reached out to touch it; such birthmarks were considered auspicious — even sacred — by the feline races. Suddenly, Amery realized the wolf had directed a question towards him. Quite a while ago, in fact. Whoops.

“W-What did you say? I'm so sorry, I was… distracted."

The gray wolf wore a stony expression. “I don't like to repeat myself… but I'll forgive it this once, since you nearly died. I asked if you cook, slave."

Amery swallowed hard. He'd learned to cook from the palace chefs as a child, but hadn't had much opportunity to practice since he joined the war effort at sixteen. Still, he nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes, I can cook."

“Good," the wolf grunted in approval. “You know how to clean?"

“Yes sir." Amery kept his answers short and simple. His parents, the Emperor and Empress Rethji, had always insisted that their children tidy their own rooms, refusing to allow the maidservants to assist them. It built character, or something, he'd been told.

Another approving grunt. “You're easy on the eyes, cat. Or you will be, once that swelling goes down. Hmm… yeah. You'll do." The wolf beckoned Hawley over, and the feline trotted quickly to stand by his side.

“Yes, Gladiator Lysander?" Amery looked at the cheetah as he spoke. His face showed two emotions; a mix of fear, with just a hint of… surprise? “Did you… will you finally be taking a slave?"

“Yeah. This one." A callused paw patted the side of the caracal's face, and he shuddered, barely resisting the urge to turn away. “What's your name, cat?"

“A-Amery." The caracal couldn't hide the tremble in his voice, or in his paws. His entire body shuddered as his stomach churned, and heat flooded his face.

A meaty fist slammed into the sand beside him as the wolf — Lysander, it seemed — let out a low growl. “That's 'master' to you, meat. 'Amery, master'. I'm warning you this one and only time. Remember… I don't like to repeat myself."

The caracal flinched away from the sudden outburst. “Yes! Sorry… er, sorry, m-master?"

Lysander nodded once in approval as Hawley scribbled something onto a parchment he held, then snapped his fingers at a nearby guard, the portly boar from earlier. He hurried over, never meeting Lysander's eyes, focusing entirely on Amery and unlocking the shackles that chained his wrists and ankles before stepping back.

“Get up." Lysander stood as he issued the command. The caracal grunted, and hauled himself to his feet, although he staggered a little as he turned to face the wolf. “Raise your chin," came the next order. Numbly, Amery did so, and Lysander pulled out a strip of black leather with a buckle attached. He wondered what it was for a moment, before the wolf reached out and fastened it around his neck, securing it with a small brass lock embossed with a wolf's head.

“This is one way I'll mark you as mine, cat. Remember, you belong to me now. Follow me; we're done here."

Amery obeyed quietly. It was almost a relief; perhaps his penance for killing the wolfen soldier had finally begun. Wandering through a maze of corridors that all looked the same. Since he was staring at his feet the entire time, he never noticed that Lysander had stopped until he bumped into the wolf.

It was like walking into a brick wall, but with fur. The caracal yelped, falling backwards on his ass. A sharp pain shot up his spine, and he choked back a curse, opting instead to suck a breath in between his teeth.

“Watch where you're going, slave!" Lysander growled, baring his muzzle full of sharp teeth.

Amery fumbled his way to his feet. “S-Sorry! Ah! Sorry, master! I didn't mean to bump into you. I'm so sorry, I —"

“You hurt?" The wolf interrupted his hasty apology.

“I-I… What?"

“I said, are you hurt?" Lysander snarled, his upper lip curling into a sneer. “And you're supposed to call me 'master'. You just made me repeat myself twice in the space of two breaths. Maybe you're more trouble than you're worth. Shoulda let Garen finish you…"

The caracal's eyes widened. “No! No, master, I'm sorry. I — please forgive me. Obviously, this is all new to me. I promise I'll do better. Um… and no, I'm not hurt, master."

“Better." Lysander fished out a key from a leather pouch slung about his hips, and unlocked a nearby door. He opened it, pointing with a sharp claw. “Get in."

Scurrying inside, Amery took in the sight of the dimly lit room. A small, barred window near the roof looked out on the street beyond, and was the only natural illumination. With the sun low in the sky right now, only a sliver of light shone through. An armor rack holding a chain shirt stood in the corner, and a pile of linens — mostly pants, by the looks of it — lay haphazardly next to it. A surprisingly intricately carved wooden screen separated the room into two halves, and Amery could see a bed just beyond it. A second, distinctly plain screen hid a privy in the corner, and an alcove next to it in the right-hand wall held a drain and a spout, from which crystal-clear water fell in a continuous stream.

The room was… spartan, but serviceable. However, what struck Amery the most was the overwhelming scent that filled the area. His nose had always been sharp, even for a feline, and the thick odor was almost overpowering. It smelled of sweat, sharp and spicy and masculine, and of lupine musk. But there was also pine and cedar, and a faint whiff of… lavender? He instinctively wanted to turn and sniff at the wolf, but thought better of it; Lysander was on a hair trigger, it seemed, and he couldn't imagine what the wolf would do to him if he got caught scenting the man.

Amery only had a few moments to take everything in when Lysander grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and shoved him into the room. “Strip," he commanded.

The feline looked down at the tattered remnants of his clothing, then back at the wolf. “I'm sorry, master?"

With a snarl, Lysander's claws snagged the flayed shirt that barely covered Amery's torso. He ripped it to pieces, the rags falling to the floor. “I said strip. Now, get your pants off before I have to do it for you!"

Hesitantly, Amery undid the linen ties that held his breeches closed, sliding them down and letting them puddle at his feet before stepping out of them. Amery covered himself with his paws, hunching over to show as little of himself as possible. When he looked at Lysander again, he did a double take. The wolf was staring at him, his growling sneer replaced by some other, unreadable expression. “Um… master?"

The wolf shook his head slightly, an almost imperceptible twitch. “Ah. Right. Come with me." The familiar rough paw grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him toward the alcove with the running water. Wordlessly, he shoved Amery in, directly under the stream.

The caracal gasped as the water poured onto him. How long had it been since he'd been able to bathe? And this… contraption, whatever it was, seemed absolutely luxurious. The water was cool, but not cold, and a welcome respite from the heat of the coliseum. Amery closed his eyes for a moment, and let his shoulders drop a little as he exhaled.

His reverie broke when he felt thick, callused paws turning him around to get the water on his back. Amery's eyes snapped open as he turned, and he saw Lysander's face take on an uncharacteristic softness. The paws that were so rough with him earlier now took on a gentle touch. When he spoke, he sounded almost kind. “This… is going to sting, cat. Bear it."

The caracal opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled yowl as Lysander pressed against his chest, driving his wounds into the pouring water. Despite the cool temperature, it still felt like fire pouring against the savaged flesh. His vision whited out momentarily when Lysander took a clay bottle and poured some of the contents onto the wound directly, then choked out a sob when the wolf scrubbed.

“Be strong. You're mine now; you cannot be weak." Again, Lysander spoke in a firm, yet nurturing tone. Something about his deep rasp caused a shiver to run down the caracal's spine, and he gritted his teeth against the pain.

He was so focused on ignoring the pain that he hardly registered it when Lysander moved to washing the rest of his body. His paws stayed gentle as he lathered soap over Amery's short-furred scalp, his long, lean arms, and the rest of his lithe frame. Then the wolf turned him about, rinsing the suds down the drain.

“Here, cat. Let's get you dry." Wobbling a little, Amery stepped out of the alcove and onto a woven rug, water swiftly pooling beneath him as it dripped from his thick fur. Lysander produced a towel — mercifully clean — from a wicker basket and began to scruff the feline dry. However, when he got the wounds on Amery's back, he paused, then patted at them tenderly. The caracal heard him muttering under his breath. “…brutes. Like there's no way to get people to obey except… ugh. Amateurs." Then, a little louder, “This is going to leave a scar." A long moment of silence stretched between them before Lysander cleared his throat. “What… what did you do to deserve this?"

“I was disobedient, master." Amery said quietly. “I assure you, I deserved it."

This time, annoyance tinged the wolf's words. “You didn't answer the question." He punctuated each of his next words with icy precision. “What. Did. You. Do?"

The feline sighed. “There was a slave — an older one — who was moving slowly this morning. Too slowly. They were going to whip him for it, but I jumped in front of it and took the blow myself. When they were going to beat us both, I took his place to spare him."

“Huh."

Amery stood in silence for a long while, as Lysander finished patting him dry. Then out came a brush as Lysander continued to groom him. Finally, the feline spoke up. “Sir?"

“Master," he said idly, without the usual fire behind it.

“Master, sorry." Amery fiddled with a claw on his right hand. “Why… what are you doing? You needn't bathe me; I can do it myself."

“You are mine," he snarled, and that familiar growl rose low through the air. “It is my right and my duty to care for what is mine, slave. Now hold still."

Amery blinked, unsure what to make of this development. He hissed when Lysander slathered a cold, gelled substance on his back, setting his flayed skin ablaze. “Fuck!" he swore, unable to hold back.

“Yeah, I know." The wolf almost sounded remorseful, he thought. “It a salve that helps wounds heal cleanly and quickly. It stings like a sonofabitch, but it works. Be strong."

The feline ground his teeth together as a tear escaped his eye. It's okay… I deserve this… I deserve all this and more. I killed a man… I wish I'd never met him.

Finally, the wolf finished by wrapping the wounds in bandages, and he placed the lid back on the clay pot that held the cursed balm that burned him so. “It's late," he said matter-of-factly. “We should sleep."

Amery yawned, the mention of sleep suddenly making him realize how exhausted he was. “Yes, master." He looked around the room, trying to discern where he could rest. “Uh, sorry. Where —"

“With me." Lysander pointed at the gigantic bed across the room.

Heat rose in his face as the caracal balked. “You want me to… with you? No, master, that's too much. I can sleep on the floor."

Lysander shook his head. “You are mine, cat, and that means you need to smell like me. It's a pack thing. And sharing a bed is the easiest way to do that." When he saw the horrified look on Amery's face, he sighed. “Look, I'm not asking you to be a bedwarmer, or anything like that. I promise, that's the one thing I would never order you to do. Besides, the bed is much more comfortable than the floor, you know? Come on; get in bed."

Hesitantly, the feline peeled back the blankets and crawled into the bed. The bedframe creaked as Lysander's mammoth body crawled in next to him. Amery had to admit, the wolf was right; the bedding smelled potently of wolf musk and forest, a scent that was clearly Lysander's. The cloth-stuffed mattress bounced as Lysander moved to wrap an arm around the caracal, pulling him against his brawny body. Amery felt his face flush with heat again; he may be a slave, and Lysander may be his captor, but he was a man with natural urges like anyone else. And honestly? The wolf was gorgeous. Besides, how long had it been since someone held him, or even given him a hug? The army wasn't exactly in the business of cuddling.

“Um… Goodnight, master," he said, resisting the urge to snuggle into Lysander's fluffy, muscular chest.

“Mm. Goodnight, kitten," the wolf said sleepily, pressing the feline into him.

Sleep came quickly for Lysander. Amery found his gentle snoring soothing, and soon was having dreams of his own.

Zzz…

…

To Be Continued.