As Nate advanced on him, the guy with the stick backed away, but there wasn’t very far he could go, unless he wanted to get knifed in the back like his friend. The fact that he now had a weapon while his opponent remained empty-handed seemed to give him some backbone—but he was still slow, almost comically so, to defend himself when Nate made his move, coming directly at him. The stick should have given him reach—or at the least something to defend himself with—but instead, it got turned against him when Nate grabbed it with his right and punched the guy in the face with his left, gaining leverage through the weapon. Too stunned to react, the guy wasn’t able to defend himself—but also didn’t let go—and two straight, easy jabs later he fell to the ground, only partly held up by the stick that he was still holding on to for dear life. Nate grabbed the stick with both hands and kicked him in the side of the head, wrenching the weapons out of his slack hands. He dropped it, then bent down, picked the guy up, and threw him, back-first, into the sturdy wall of the arena a few feet away, uttering a primal scream that the crowd ate up. I didn’t hear a crunch as the guy’s body hit, but it didn’t look good for him as he slid to the ground, lifeless. Kicking one end of the stick to make the other flip up, Nate easily caught it and advanced on the lifeless heap. Another kick to the shoulder had the guy flop onto his back. I realized I’d been wrong—he was still aware, letting out a scream, but he was unable to move. Nate pointedly looked at the stick in his hands, then down at the guy—and with a diabolical, twisted smirk rammed the end of it right through the guy’s left eye socket. The scream cut off, some twitching ensued, and then it was over—seconds after it had begun.
Stepping away, Nate turned to the crowd, shaking the bloody stick—and then broke it over his knee, the sturdy wood splintering dramatically. “Who do you think I am?” he called out and threw the two parts away. “I don’t need a flimsy weapon to win my fights!” Roars and cheers went up all around, chanting in places but it didn’t take, the people too engaged to coordinate and concentrate.
Brock had watched the spectacle where he’d remained standing next to the bled-out body of the first victim, now no longer as relaxed as before. He watched Nate advance slowly, shifting his position a few times but not from nerves. The two men stared at each other, neither afraid but only Brock with a certain kind of apprehension in his gaze. Nate had turned full-on killer, no remorse visible. On the contrary, he kept his arms a few inches raised, moving his fingers up in turn with the ebb and swell of the crowd. All over, people started chanting again—“Blood! Blood!”—and now it took, like a terrible thrum of violence. I had no idea why he was egging them on, but it sure was working. They were eating it up. They were loving every second of it—and they knew that the real fun was only about to start.
There was no great lead-up. There was no testing, or taunting, or goofing around. As soon as Nate stepped close enough, Brock sprang forward, moving lightning-fast, his knife-hand even faster. Nate wasn’t stupid enough to fall for it, evading rather than letting himself get sliced up by blocking to try to gain the opportunity for a punch, only to bleed out within the next minute. Brock was beefier—and in better physical condition—but Nate had a few inches on him both in height and in reach, and I knew he would bring them to bear soon. He gave Brock about a minute to tire himself out some, the knife getting nowhere near his skin. Both men were careful, neither underestimating the other, but it was only a matter of time until one of them would make a mistake.
I knew exactly when Nate was about to make his move—he didn’t pause, or act any different, but there was something about how he balanced himself that triggered me. We’d spent a lot of time sparring, particularly over the last two years, and I knew his tells, few that they were, like nobody else’s. Although, watching him fight now was something else. He never held back with me except for when he was teaching me something and had to wait for me to figure out how to best put knowledge to practice and commit moves to muscle memory—which was the reason why I’d had a relatively easy time beating that guy at the betting ring. I was used to always sparring with someone who was taller and heavier than me, with better reflexes and balance, a body not held back by missing bits and pieces. It was demoralizing as fuck sometimes, but beat losing in a real fight. But this now? This was something else. That should have been obvious—one would presume Nate usually wasn’t keen on killing me when we got into a physical fight—but it still stunned me to watch it.
It was beautiful. Terrifying, sure—but also beautiful. The way he moved; the way he reacted; mind laser-focused, body in peak performance mode. Brock had never stood a chance, and he knew it.
Maybe Nate’s tell had been more obvious than I’d thought because rather than continue to engage, Brock used that moment to step back and kick up sand and pebbles with his foot. Nate barely more than blinked as he went after him, having to move just a little farther because of the suddenly opening distance between them—
Brock fell for it, stabbing for Nate’s ribs, the angle right and his speed too quick for Nate to parry. Only that Nate didn’t even try but let the stab through, sacrificing a glancing slice to the torso—in favor of grabbing Brock’s knife hand, a single twist enough to break his wrist. Brock screamed and tried to back away, the knife clattering to the ground. But Nate held on, using his opponent’s weight for leverage to land a kick to the head. Brock wasted another few seconds trying to tear himself free which earned him a knee to the groin as well. Only then did Nate let go of his wrist, but only so he could twine his fingers and bring both hands together down on Brock’s head. Brock staggered, and a kick to the sternum sent him toward the ground as he lost his balance. Nate screamed as he lunged after him, going straight for the face—and then his throat. Brock, bleeding profusely and in obvious pain, tried to pry his hands off but with only the fingers of his left working there wasn’t much he could do. Rather than strangle him completely, Nate let up as Brock’s face had turned a deep red in favor of a few more punches, his whole weight behind them. Blood and teeth sprayed—the crowd continued to cheer with every hit that landed. And then, when it was pretty much over, Nate grabbed the knife, plunged it into Brock’s lower torso below the ribcage, rammed his left hand into his body almost up to his elbow—and ripped his heart out. The crowd screamed with triumph—as did he, I thought, but it was drowned out—and louder yet when he bit into the still-beating heart, never mind the blood spurting from the many arteries and veins attached to it, spraying blood everywhere.
And yes, he ate the entire thing, using his free hand to further fan the flames of the masses.
“You might want to consider doing some marriage counseling,” Richards whispered in my ear, the words almost unintelligible. I turned my head, staring straight into his eyes, and let a snort be my only response. His brow furrowed, a look of bewilderment crossing his face. “Are you seriously turned on right now?”
The nice thing would have been a straight-out denial, but he’d held on to my ass one time too many tonight for that to happen. “Better not ask questions you don’t want an answer to,” I advised, almost breaking out into a fit of giggles when I realized how low and throaty my voice was. Queen of mixed signals, thy name is Bree.
Richards seemed relieved when I was the first to look away, quickly checking on what I’d missed in the meantime. Not much, from what I could tell—Nate was still standing there, letting the crowds cheer him on. No more cannibalism following, which I was glad to see. There was no disgust on his face but the passive expression told me all I needed to know—he wasn’t proud of his actions, and he sure as hell hated the imbeciles who thought this was entertaining. But he was a part of this, clearly not by choice, and there was only so much he could do about it.
Just how much that was true became obvious once the crowds slowly started to calm down, and the gate opened to spill out yet more armed guards, the ones up by the ringmaster still ready for everything. Nate took a bow—deep and theatrical—which got him another wave of shouts and cheers, and
let himself be escorted into the bowels of the arena underground. He did it walking tall, looking like a king with his personal escort, pretty much covered in blood from head to toe—but there was no mistaking who was in charge.
The ringmaster was back, but I tuned out the noise of his little thank-you speech, my attention still on the gate that had closed by now.
So close—and yet, so far apart.
The morbid part of me supplied that, at the very least, the serum would keep him from contracting all kinds of shit.
He was alive—and right now that was the best news possible. The only news I cared about.
“And, what do you think? Did we promise you too much?” Guy number one was back to pester us. I forced myself to stop gazing longingly at the gate and to focus on him instead. He looked delirious with excitement, which was a good thing because I wasn’t sure how good my faking game was right now.
“That was definitely something,” I offered, my mind too full of upcoming ideas what to do next. It must be easy to find some of the guards and maybe bribe some information out of them. Depending on how close they got to the Roman games, I could maybe even walk up to someone and say I wanted to fuck their monster and they’d let me in. That wasn’t an idea I liked to contemplate, although I could take a good guess how that would have gone down—if only once. They could hardly make a spectacle out of hapless whores being killed where nobody saw it. At least I hoped that was the likely outcome.
I really needed to get out of here and do something, or else I would drive myself crazy within seconds.
“Something you must have seen to believe,” Red enthused, helping out when I got unresponsive, lost in thought.
Half turning to him, I nodded. “I’m weirdly hungry now. Let’s grab a bite?”
Richards went ever so slightly pale, but did a good job fake-agreeing. “Sure. That one tavern had pork. I’d kill for a pig right about now.” His hands remained pointedly at his sides. I had to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek when I noticed. This was too precious.
Our companions didn’t seem to find it weird that anyone would want to eat something after seeing what had just gone down in the arena. “All kinds of meat available—the upside of coming here! Beats eating four-year-old canned food every day. Tell you what, why don’t you come with us? We know all the best haunts around!”
I tried smiling sweetly as I geared up for my rejection but that didn’t seem to work well, so I threw one arm around Red’s neck and pulled him close. “Maybe we’ll catch you later? I have something else on my mind right now.” And oh, it was glorious to see—and feel—Richards squirm next to me, all the while trying to pretend like he was on board. Maybe I was going to hell for this, but at least I was having fun all the way there.
A trio of lewd grins told me they’d received the message, and nobody held us back when we split. It took us a while to leave the arena although we’d been in the upper third of the ranks. Throughout the fight, I’d pretty much forgotten about the thunder and impending storm, but as soon as we were out in the open, the wind whipped at my clothes, the first drops of rain pelting us.
“Let’s find somewhere we can talk, and maybe not get drenched,” I told Richards, staying close as not to get separated.
He inclined his head, adjusting his pace to mine to avoid me falling back. “Why didn’t you just say how annoyed you were by my attempt to keep you off most men’s radar? You didn’t need to actively skeeve me out.”
“Didn’t need to, no. But maybe really, really wanted to,” I teased before getting serious. “I get what you were doing, and maybe it was even working. Doesn’t mean I had to like it. Isn’t there anything in your psych profile of me about me acting out when I get uncomfortable?”
“I’ve been making you uncomfortable?” he said, as if that was impossible—and quite the opposite of what things had looked like to him. “You’re the one who thinks getting punched in the face is fun.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, and it went on a little longer than it should have. Damn drugs. “Hey, you know who I’m married to. And I’m pretty adaptable where my standards are of what is healthy and normal.” I paused, but simply couldn’t help myself. “Why don’t we continue this discussion after we’ve sprung him, so he can offer his opinion on the topic? Including your hand on my ass.”
Richards was smart enough not to reply, instead focusing on something up ahead. “I think I just saw someone duck into that alley,” he offered. “Looked like Marleen. Maybe she already found something out. We should catch up with her.”
“Good idea. I’d love to hear her opinion on this, too,” I quipped, laughing about my own joke. If Red ran out of luck, she’d agree with me. As part of this crowd, she’d probably been at the arena as well. I was sure she was the right woman to have a conversation about rare steak with right now. Oh, poor Richards—
I didn’t notice the mountain of a man stepping into my path, nor his equally muscled companion behind me. My instincts gave zero warning. One moment I was thinking about how to best rag on Richards, the next there was a sack over my head and someone was holding me in a vise grip, and then it was too late to fight because they really knew how to tie knots. Brief—very brief, indeed—sounds of a fight coming from my left side made me guess Richards wasn’t doing any better.
As they dragged us off to who knew where, I told myself that there was a silver lining to this—at least we wouldn’t have to hunt down who was in charge here, but even got the VIP service of getting carried there.
Always think positive, I reminded myself—because right here, right now, the negative outcomes weren’t anything I wanted to concentrate on.
Chapter 21
A short time and some quality vertigo later, I found myself dumped back on my ass, a quick kick to where my second kidney used to be convincing me that remaining down was a good option. They hadn’t even bothered with gagging me, but trying to scream a few times had proven rather futile—not really a surprise. I hadn’t been carried far, and most of that out of the wind and rain, the last minute or so through relative quiet. In the distance, I could still hear the din all the people in the camp made, which was strangely comforting. I’d kind of hoped they’d undo the rope my hands were tied with but instead, someone pulled my arms up and hooked the rope onto something, which made kneeling the most comfortable position—for now. I was still debating whether trying to get up was a good idea—and where they’d kick me next if I tried—when the hood over my head was removed, the light of a few torches blinding for a few seconds. The first thing I checked was whether Richards was still there; after all, this camp, me, and companions didn’t have the best track record. But yes, he was there, right next to me, close enough that I maybe could have nudged him with my boot if I’d tried hard. One of the burly guys who’d lugged us here—wherever here was—removed his hood right now, leaving me to further explore the room.
There wasn’t much to it. My hands were tied to some kind of iron frame probably used for just that cause—or hanging up laundry. The room was maybe ten by fifteen feet large, the only piece of furniture a small shelf at the wall to my left, mostly empty except for some odds and ends. It didn’t look like the room got much use but there were three doors that I could see, one behind us and two in front. Through the right one the not-quite familiar figure of the ringmaster stepped, followed by a vaguely more familiar man. It took me a few moments to recognize the guy who I’d fought at the betting ring. He was silently sneering at me as soon as his gaze fell on me, or as much as he could see of me with one eye swollen shut. Those two increased the number of people in the room to twelve—making that eight guards, quite the overkill if anyone had asked me—leaving it quite crowded.
My thoughts were racing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins doing weird things in connection with fear and my body trying to gear up for a fight, while I tried so very hard to keep a clear head. Make that, clear my head so I could think. Fuck, but this didn’t look good.
; “What’s this all about?” I heard myself ask—no, demand—out loud just as I’d wondered the same thing. Since I now had their attention, I decided to surge ahead, talking just a little too fast to appear relaxed—but then why would I be relaxed in my current position? “Don’t tell me that sore loser ratted me out for a rule violation. Because, trust me, it was his own fault that he got his ass kicked. You can ask any of the hundred people who were there at the ring. I really thought you were better than those settlement pansies.”
The ringmaster listened to my ramble with a slightly amused expression. Once I fell silent, he turned to the loser. “This is her?”
The guy nodded. “Yeah, it’s her. I’d recognize that bitch anywhere. Fucking Glimmer cunt.”
No reprimand followed, but the ringmaster looked vaguely bored by the expletives. Looking at someone behind me, he ordered, “Check her.”
That didn’t sound good. I tensed, but there wasn’t much I could do, really. Not that much of a surprise when someone grabbed my head and pushed it down to reveal my neck; my jacket was still tied around my waist so my upper body wasn’t covered by that much, making it really easy to get to the marks. “Three,” the guy who was still holding on to me confirmed.
“Check her lower back next,” the ringmaster ordered. Uh-oh. I really didn’t like where this was going, and when the goon let go of my head in favor of pulling off my jacket so he could get to where my tank top was stuffed into my pants, I tried to rear up—to do what, I didn’t exactly know—but when I felt the cool steel of the barrel of a gun against my temple, I froze. The ringmaster took a step forward so he was once again in my field of vision, a slight but not too nasty smile on his face now. “There’s no need for violence unless you force our hand,” he explained, sounding way too reasonable for anyone’s good—and there was still the matter of the gun pressed to my head. “We just need to check something. Quick.” He pointedly didn’t ask my permission and neither did I give it, but I didn’t resist when the goon pulled up my tank top in the back.
Green Fields Series Box Set | Vol. 4 | Books 10-12 Page 32