Read Online Malachi by Shiloh Walker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Shiloh Walker
Tags: Romance, Paranormal
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not,” Joshua said flatly. “If you do, sooner or later, the Master will learn of it. And he will beat you to death. If you do not…” The older man’s voice trailed off and he reached up, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “The last slave who tried to refuse her paid dearly. She told the Master that the boy had tried to rape her. The Master gutted him.”
* * * * *
It came to neither.
Just a few days later, Malachi was sold.
The Mistress had not been subtle in her study of Malachi. The Master had noticed. Malachi could remember hearing, “The one is worth too much. I will not throw away the money he could bring me.”
It all came down to the fact that Malachi was big and strong, good in the arena.
“He would bring a pretty bit of gold on the block,” the slave master had agreed.
So that was where he went.
Sold. Again.
But this time, Malachi actually looked upon it as a relief.
As much as he might wish for death, he did not wish to meet his own by having the slave master cut him open and spill his guts out. A slow, painful way to die.
* * * * *
It was not the first time he had been woken with a foot kicking him in the ribs. It would not be the last. As he rolled to his feet, Malachi imagined grabbing the bastard who had kicked him, knocking his legs out from under him, taking him to the ground and choking the life from him.
The Master was not a cruel owner, especially not compared to the last one who had the fondness for the whip. Still, Mal fantasized about killing him. About running away and living in freedom.
Enough time had passed since the last brutal whipping from his previous owner that the scars on his back had faded from angry red to pale white. None of the beatings he had received since had been as bad—they had not left any scars and none of them had been with one of those damned whips. But Malachi had not forgotten the pain.
And if anybody saw the look in his eyes just yet, he would most surely be beaten. So he kept his head bowed as he waited for the orders.
With this new Master, his life had become routine. Two days ago, he had fought in the arenas. He would not fight again for another five. So he was either needed for heavy lifting—or because it was time to lay with the Mistress again.
He sincerely hoped it was lifting.
The Mistress had a taste for pain that turned Malachi’s stomach. Even thinking of what she liked to do during sex made his skin crawl and his testicles shrivel.
He would almost rather step into the arena again. Almost. Since he had been bought by the new Master, he had stepped into the arena many times. He had won each bout.
But winning was not enough.
Taking the life of the fallen fighter had made him ill for days. But the man would have died anyway, and it would not have been anything as merciful as having his neck snapped.
The only good thing about the bouts was the knowledge he would have a respite after each win.
Malachi was wrong. He was not needed for lifting or for mounting the damned Mistress again. By mid-evening, he was face to face with the man in charge of preparing men for the arena. The man was small and dark with slanted eyes and an odd accent. He moved like nothing Mal had ever seen.
“Too slow. Too slow. You too big to ever move fast enough,” Yen said, shaking his head as he circled around Malachi. “You no business fighting tonight—still bruised.” He poked a slender finger into Malachi’s multi-colored rib cage and smiled when Malachi did not even flinch. “Last fight was close miss.”
Malachi did not bother saying anything. The man he had fought had moved in a manner oddly similar to Yen’s but had stood nearly as tall as Malachi. He had been deadly. A few times, Malachi had seen his life flash before his eyes.
And it had been a pathetic thing, too. Because there was very little in his life worth fighting to live for. All that kept him on his feet had been sheer stubbornness.
“You stiff. Moving
* * * * *
It came to neither.
Just a few days later, Malachi was sold.
The Mistress had not been subtle in her study of Malachi. The Master had noticed. Malachi could remember hearing, “The one is worth too much. I will not throw away the money he could bring me.”
It all came down to the fact that Malachi was big and strong, good in the arena.
“He would bring a pretty bit of gold on the block,” the slave master had agreed.
So that was where he went.
Sold. Again.
But this time, Malachi actually looked upon it as a relief.
As much as he might wish for death, he did not wish to meet his own by having the slave master cut him open and spill his guts out. A slow, painful way to die.
* * * * *
It was not the first time he had been woken with a foot kicking him in the ribs. It would not be the last. As he rolled to his feet, Malachi imagined grabbing the bastard who had kicked him, knocking his legs out from under him, taking him to the ground and choking the life from him.
The Master was not a cruel owner, especially not compared to the last one who had the fondness for the whip. Still, Mal fantasized about killing him. About running away and living in freedom.
Enough time had passed since the last brutal whipping from his previous owner that the scars on his back had faded from angry red to pale white. None of the beatings he had received since had been as bad—they had not left any scars and none of them had been with one of those damned whips. But Malachi had not forgotten the pain.
And if anybody saw the look in his eyes just yet, he would most surely be beaten. So he kept his head bowed as he waited for the orders.
With this new Master, his life had become routine. Two days ago, he had fought in the arenas. He would not fight again for another five. So he was either needed for heavy lifting—or because it was time to lay with the Mistress again.
He sincerely hoped it was lifting.
The Mistress had a taste for pain that turned Malachi’s stomach. Even thinking of what she liked to do during sex made his skin crawl and his testicles shrivel.
He would almost rather step into the arena again. Almost. Since he had been bought by the new Master, he had stepped into the arena many times. He had won each bout.
But winning was not enough.
Taking the life of the fallen fighter had made him ill for days. But the man would have died anyway, and it would not have been anything as merciful as having his neck snapped.
The only good thing about the bouts was the knowledge he would have a respite after each win.
Malachi was wrong. He was not needed for lifting or for mounting the damned Mistress again. By mid-evening, he was face to face with the man in charge of preparing men for the arena. The man was small and dark with slanted eyes and an odd accent. He moved like nothing Mal had ever seen.
“Too slow. Too slow. You too big to ever move fast enough,” Yen said, shaking his head as he circled around Malachi. “You no business fighting tonight—still bruised.” He poked a slender finger into Malachi’s multi-colored rib cage and smiled when Malachi did not even flinch. “Last fight was close miss.”
Malachi did not bother saying anything. The man he had fought had moved in a manner oddly similar to Yen’s but had stood nearly as tall as Malachi. He had been deadly. A few times, Malachi had seen his life flash before his eyes.
And it had been a pathetic thing, too. Because there was very little in his life worth fighting to live for. All that kept him on his feet had been sheer stubbornness.
“You stiff. Moving
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