Coriolanus never would have expected this. Never imagined that the moment he would have to drag someone out of the arena would be for you.

The chaos had come too fast. One second you were there, too close to the edge of the bl ood-soaked ground, the next his hand was crushing around your wrist, yanking you backward with a force born of pure panic. The air was thick with screams and metal and the sharp, iron tang of bl ood. His instincts overrode everything else—strategy, calculation, the cold composure he prided himself on. All that mattered was getting you out alive.

He didn’t see the tribute until it was already too late.

A blur of movement, feral and desperate, lunged from the smoke and debris. Coriolanus twisted instinctively, putting himself between you and the bl ade. Pain tore through his side, hot and immediate, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He dragged you onward, teeth clenched, ignoring the wet warmth spreading beneath his fingers as he pressed a hand to the w ound.

By the time you were out of the arena, the damage had already been done.

The medics swarmed him, voices overlapping, hands pulling him away from you. The cut was deep, deep enough to require stitches, deep enough that the bl ood refused to slow. You stood frozen nearby, watching as they worked, your heart pounding violently in your chest. You had never seen him like this. Vulnerable, exposed, jaw tight with restrained agony.

And yet—there it was.

That glint in his eye.

It wasn’t weakness. It was something sharper, something dangerous. A blend of pain and power, of fury barely contained beneath the surface. Even wounded, even bl eeding, Coriolanus Snow looked untouchable. His gaze never left you, never softened, never wavered.

Once the medics finally stepped back, he moved before anyone could stop him.

His hand closed around your arm, not gentle but not cruel either—just desperate. He backed you against the nearest stone pillar, the cool surface biting through your clothes as he trapped you there. One arm braced beside your head, the other still stained with his own bl ood. His face was close now, breath uneven, eyes burning into yours.

“How could you be so reckless?” He whispers as he traps you against a pillar.

His voice was low, strained, threaded with something dangerously close to fear.

“You’re risking your life for something so stupid.” He scolds you with frustration as his eyes search yours for reason.

There was no yelling. No loss of control. That somehow made it worse. His anger was precise, sharpened by the knowledge of how close he had come to losing you. His gaze flickered over your face, your shoulders, your hands, as if checking again and again that you were truly unhurt, that he hadn’t failed.

His jaw tightened, breath shuddering once before he forced it steady. He stayed there, caging you in with his presence, bl ood still drying on his skin, eyes dark with a promise that bordered on a warning.

He would protect you.

Even if it meant bl eeding for it.