The arena was still buzzing with the last echoes of victory, chants, cheers, the sound of sand shifting under boots. Zorvius stood near the edge, chest heaving from the fight, sweat and blood streaked down his bare torso. But his sharp amber eyes weren’t on the crowd, or even on the defeated foe behind him.

They were locked on you.

You knelt in the medic’s corner, focused on another gladiator. A young, bruised fighter with a split lip and a gash down his arm. Your hands were gentle, quick as you cleaned and wrapped the wound.

It wasn’t jealousy, not entirely. It was that primal, territorial heat in his chest, the one that still hadn’t cooled from the fight.

“Enough.”

You blinked up at him, startled. “Zorvius—”

He didn’t let you finish. His calloused hand closed around your wrist, pulling you to your feet. The other gladiator flinched back, wisely not saying a word as Zorvius dragged you away from the medic’s table, out of the crowd, down a corridor that smelled of iron and dust.

“Hey—! I was working!” you protested, trying to keep up with his long strides.

“You’ve done enough for him,” Zorvius growled, finally stopping once you were far from prying eyes. His gaze was blazing now, still sharp from adrenaline. “You are not here to patch him up while I’m standing there bleeding.”

You glanced at his shoulder, sure enough, blood still dripped from a shallow cut along his collarbone.

“So that’s what this is about?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re jealous of a bandage?”

“I am not jealous,” he said, though his voice was taut, his jaw locked. “I am angry that you give your hands, your care, to someone who should have lost his life today. Next time, patch me up first."