Excerpt: The Stolen Warrior (Blades of Bisura Series)

Hessa stepped into the hall, her arms weighted by the bundles of food. Through the bars, the men held out their hands, some missing fingers, others still bloody from fighting in the pits, but all too tired to taunt her. She walked along the cells and dropped the required amount into their palms. A round of bread, a chunk of dry cheese. Behind her, the water girl followed with her bucket and ladle. It was not difficult work for a servant of the Omi House to feed the prisoners kept for the fighting pits—certainly not as bad as what the more beautiful women were expected to do. But Hessa didn’t hope her life would end in the place of her birth. She was a daughter of the brothel. An unfortunate accident had scarred her face—but fortunately for her, she was considered undesirable as a result. Still, she longed for the company of a man who could love her.

She passed her reflection in the window of the miserable prison, and counted her blessings, smiling to herself. Hessa opened the door that led to the lower cells, her bundle lighter now for her work was nearly done. Someone down there grunted. She held her breath as she descended into the darkness. The men kept here had proved their worth in battle and now were required to breed more children to fight in the pits.

She set the food into the hands of the first three captives. They leered at her and muttered provocative words. The last man sat in the corner of his chamber, his mouth a grim, straight line, his body muscular and tense. He stared at the light from the doorway she had come through and held up one hand to shadow his eyes. He was handsome and dangerous looking, huge compared to the other men there. All he wore was a beaded, embroidered loincloth that barely covered his extremities, a piece of cloth that looked exotic, as unusual in the dungeons as he was.

When she stopped at his cell, he faced her and stood. She stared, her head tilting back so she could hold his steely gaze while he approached the bars parting them. She reached into the bag and set her fingers around a piece of bread, a fiery heat spreading through her body and settling in her womb. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, impossibly large, impossibly wild looking, and hardly scarred from the pits at all. She held the bread out. His hand closed over hers and remained there, hot, commanding.

“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low and deep, his dark eyes holding her attention.

“Hessa.”

“And your surname?”

“Hesssa Omi.” It was the name all wards of the Omi House took. It meant they were guildless, clanless, without family.

He grunted, and she knew it had been him when she first entered that made that guttural sound of disapproval. His rough fingers traveled over her wrist, along her upper arm and settled around the middle to cradle her elbow. His thumb traced back and forth across the sensitive skin where her arm naturally bent. “Hessa. It’s a pretty name.” He smiled ever so slowly, but the expression soon vanished. His fingers traveled higher, past her sleeve and ran over her shoulder beneath the fabric of her dress. His was a gentle touch, but full of desire and lust all the same.