Colson

The Man I Let Ezra Own

Colson POV

I didn’t make it five steps from the pit before I felt it.

Not a sound.

Not a command.

Just the subtle tightening of the air—like the city itself had decided to hold its breath.

That was Ezra’s tell.

Conversations around me dipped half a second too late. Laughter hitched. Magic shifted, wards flexing like muscles preparing to strike. The crowd kept cheering below, oblivious, drunk on blood and spectacle.

But the hunters had gone quiet.

I smiled to myself.

Of course.

Ezra never let nostalgia linger. He preferred control while the scent of chaos was still fresh.

Two of his enforcers appeared at my sides—not grabbing me, not blocking my path. Just there. One brushed past me like an accident, fingers tapping once against my wrist.

Now.

I followed without protest, boots echoing softly as they escorted me up the private stairwell. The walls were thick here, reinforced with wards layered over decades. The smell hit me immediately—incense burned to mask iron and old blood. I’d bled in this stairwell once.

That memory surfaced uninvited.

I remembered laughing afterward.

The door opened, and the roar of the pit vanished like a severed limb.

Ezra stood with his back to me, hands folded behind him, watching Kendrick’s fighters tear each other apart through enchanted glass. He didn’t turn.

“You’re late,” he said calmly.

“I like to build anticipation,” I replied. “Keeps people emotionally invested.”

He hummed, unimpressed.

“Sit.”

I did.

The chair was exactly where I remembered it. Leather. Low. Intentionally uncomfortable. Ezra liked to remind people—constantly—where they ranked.

I leaned back anyway, spreading myself like I owned the space. That had always annoyed him. Which meant it was the correct choice.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Ezra said.

“Have I?” I asked lightly. “Funny. I feel focused.”

He turned then, eyes sharp, studying me like a specimen he’d already dissected once and decided to cut open again.

“You used to enjoy this place,” he said. “The pit. Kendrick’s games. Tonight, you barely looked.”

“Violence loses its charm,” I replied. “Eventually.”

Ezra stepped closer.

“That’s curious,” he said softly. “Because you used to find suffering very charming.”

I laughed under my breath. “You say that like it’s a flaw.”

His gaze lingered.

“Tell me something, Colson,” he said. “Do you remember the first man you killed for me?”

There it was.

The test.

Not a new one. Just an old blade slid gently between my ribs to see if I still bled the right way.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Dockworker,” I said instantly. “Eli Hart. Thirty-four. One kid. Wife pregnant with the second. Owed Kendrick more than he could pay.”

Ezra’s mouth curved in faint approval.

“And how did you do it?”

I shrugged. “Told him I was there to help. Walked him home. Let him talk. Snapped his neck in the hallway so his family wouldn’t hear him scream.”

The words came easily.

Too easily.

They always had.

Ezra watched me closely, searching for cracks.

There were none.

“You didn’t feed,” he noted.

I smirked. “Blood makes people sloppy.”

A soft chuckle escaped him.

“There you are,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d grown… selective.”

He gestured toward the glass.

“Do you see her?”

I followed his gaze.

Below us, in the pit, a human girl was being dragged into the ring. Barely twenty. Bruised. Terrified. The crowd noticed immediately—cheers swelling, hunger sharpening.

“She’s been skimming from Kendrick,” Ezra said conversationally. “Selling information she doesn’t understand.”

I said nothing.

Ezra turned to face me fully.

“Kill her.”

No flourish.

No justification.

Just a command.

Something inside me went very still.

Not with guilt.

With recognition.

I’d done this before. Many times. This was familiar territory—well-worn, comfortable. The part of me I pretended was dead stretched awake and smiled.

I stood.

“Here?” I asked.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. “You prefer privacy?”

I smiled wide, letting the old edge slip back into my voice.

“No,” I said. “I prefer efficiency.”

I stepped onto the ledge overlooking the pit.

The girl looked up at me, eyes wild, mouth open in a sob that never quite made it out. She was begging someone. Anyone.

The old Colson used to enjoy this part.

The moment when hope flickered—just long enough to be extinguished properly.

I dropped into the pit.

The crowd went insane.

“COL-SON—COL-SON—COL-SON!”

The chant hit something deep in my chest.

Gods help me—I’d loved that sound.

The girl scrambled back, tripping over her own feet.

“Please,” she sobbed. “I didn’t know—I swear—”

I grabbed her by the hair and hauled her upright.

“You talk too much,” I said conversationally. “That’s usually how this ends.”

She screamed.

I snapped her neck mid-sound.

Clean. Sharp. Efficient.

Her body went limp instantly.

The crowd roared approval, drunk on the sudden finality of it. Blood sprayed across my hands, warm and slick. I lifted the body, holding it aloft like a trophy before tossing it aside like trash.

Laughter bubbled out of me before I could stop it.

Not fake.

Not forced.

Real.

Dark.

I bowed deeply toward Ezra’s window.

“Send Kendrick my regards,” I called. “And a bill.”

Ezra laughed.

Satisfied.

I climbed out of the pit, blood soaking into my sleeves, the chant following me like a crown. No one tried to stop me. No one dared.

Back in the observation room, Ezra regarded me with open approval.

“You’ve changed,” he said.

I wiped my hands on a cloth and shrugged. “Everyone says that when I stop pretending to be nice.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping.

“There are whispers,” Ezra continued. “That you’ve grown sentimental.”

I met his gaze without blinking.

“Sentiment is for people who plan to live long enough to regret it,” I said. “I don’t.”

Silence stretched.

Then Ezra smiled again.

“Good,” he said. “Because I have another task for you.”

Of course he did.

As he spoke, memory continued to bloom—me leaving this room years ago, laughing, drinking, forgetting. Forgetting the witches. Forgetting the spell.

Forgetting her.

This time, I listened.

Every word. Every inflection.

Because now I understood what Amaris had done.

She hadn’t sent me here to be better.

She sent me here to remember exactly who I used to be—so I could wear that monster like armor.

And if Ezra wanted the devil he owned?

Fine.

I’d give him hell.