Graham shakes his head. “Sylvie’s the main event.” He starts guiding me away from the crowd, speaking low enough that only I can hear him. “Stick close to Hardy until they call your name. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll see you in the greenroom. If they’ve assigned us to the same one.”
“Wait, what’s happening?” My pulse spikes so hard my chest feels tight. “Where are you going?”
“Clarke and I will have a full day of filming. There usually isn’t much of that for the rookies, but you’re an anomaly, so they may call you early too. Until then, stay with Hardy.” Graham turns to his friend, which is when I realize Hardy’s name wasn’t on the bracket. “Watch her like a hawk, man. I swear I’ll owe you.”
“No need, brother. I’ll guard her like she was mine.”
“Thanks.” Graham turns to me and leans in for a kiss, but it’s much quicker and more perfunctory than I’d prefer. “Block out all the static. Concentrate on your strategy. You’ll be great. And I’ll be right there to watch.” Over his shoulder, I see that the screen is flashing with his name and Jack Clarke’s, telling them to report to the arena. “I gotta go.”
“I know.” I pull him in for one more kiss, then I let him go, and that’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Including the crime that put me here.
Graham and Jack Clarke head across the yard toward the path that leads to the arena, side by side, but not speaking. The crowd around us begins to dissipate, as those on today’s bracket leave to do whatever pre-fight ritual helps them keep their heads in the game, and everyone else starts claiming weight machines or a seat at one of the picnic tables, from which they’ll evidently be able to watch the pre-fight footage, on the same feed I used to watch at home.
Before I can figure out what I’m supposed to be doing to prepare, a soft growling noise overhead catches my attention, and I look up to see a huge ship approaching from the south. “What’s that?”
“We call it the blimp,” Hardy says. “It’s the control center for the broadcast. There’s also a VIP viewing room on the lowest level.”
“There are spectators on that ship? Like, civilians?”
He nods. “Very wealthy civilians. Mostly CEOs of the biggest sponsor companies. They get to see the fighters in person. Talk to them. Assess their potential on camera. The best thing you can do for yourself is to impress them, if you get the chance. The more they like you, the more money they’ll spend keeping you healthy. And arming you. If you last long enough to be eligible for those perks.”
I’m still thinking about that when Hardy nudges my arm. “Let’s find a seat. It might be a while before they call you.” He heads toward the nearest picnic table, and I’ve just turned to follow him when a hand closes over my mouth, cutting off my scream before it can even form.
An arm wraps around my chest, squeezing my ribcage too brutally for me to draw a breath as it lifts me a full foot off the ground.
I kick as I’m hauled away from Hardy, clawing at the hand over my mouth, silently begging my only remaining ally to turn around. To notice I’m no longer with him. I try to throw my head back, but my skull is already pinned against what feels like someone’s collarbone.
Panic burns in my lungs. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. This is it—I’m not going to live to even see the arena.
A small crowd closes around me, towering over me, and a second later, the man holding me slams me down on one of the picnic tables, hard enough to stun me.
I gasp, trying to suck air into my shocked lungs while hands tear at my shirt and jerk my pants off, right over my shoes. Finally, I get enough air to scream, and this time no one tries to stop me. I’m surrounded by men who aren’t participating in this assault, but not one of them comes to my aid.
“Hold her down,” a voice says, and someone grabs my arms and pulls them over my head. Another set of hands lands on my shoulders, pressing me into the table. “This’ll be our last chance, if Link kills her.”
I turn my head, fighting terrified tears, and see Hardy on the edge of the crowd, struggling against the three men who’re holding him still. Making him watch.
The ship flies overhead, and I wonder if there are cameras. If they’re recording this. If Graham can see.
If my parents can see.
The faces over me blur together as someone tries to rip my bra off and someone else fucking bites my shoulder. “Get off me you fucking psychos!” I shout. The men only laugh. Hands slip beneath the sides of my underwear, and I kick out as hard as I can.
My foot connects with something firm, and someone stumbles back with a deep oof. Someone else tries to grab my feet, and I kick again with my heel, throwing another man off me.
“Turn her over,” someone says, and hands grab me. I’m lifted, still screaming, and flipped onto my stomach while the crowd around me presses in closer. Hands are everywhere. My underwear is gone.
I’m going to die here.
With that realization, my fear bleeds into a blinding rage.
My gaze settles on a pile of material on the table, right in front of my face. It’s my pants. And there, peeking out of my pocket, is the very end of my switchblade.
A hand lands on my back, pinning my chest to the table. Someone squeezes my bare backside, and rough material brushes against the backs of my thighs. But no one’s grabbed my hands since they turned me over. They don’t think there’s much I can do with them from my stomach.
They’re dead fucking wrong.
I grab the knife and press the button. The blade pops out. I swing to my right and the blade sinks effortlessly into flesh. Roth kept it nice and sharp.
Someone grunts, and the handle jerks in my hand as whoever I’ve stabbed retreats, but I hold on tight to the weapon.
“What the fuck?” The hand disappears from my back.
I shove myself upright against whoever’s still pressing me to the table, then I throw my left elbow back as hard as I can. It lands against a solid plank of muscle, and I hear another grunt, but the man behind me won’t move. I’m pinned between him and the end of the table.
“Grab her!” a voice shouts in my ear.
Someone reaches for my arms, and I slash out wildly. The knife snags in fabric, and someone new screams. Still pinned against the table, I swing back with the knife, and it sinks into the thigh of the man behind me. He shouts and stumbles away, and suddenly I’m free.
I spin around, my jaw clenched so hard it hurts. My pulse racing so fast my vision swims. There’s a man on the ground in front of me, clutching his leg. Blood seeps between his fingers. He scoots back, trying to crawl away without standing, and I fall on him with one knee on his sternum. My arm swings. My blade sinks deep between his ribs on the left side, and I use both hands to twist it. Causing as much internal damage as I can.
Shredding his lung. Hopefully nicking his heart.
I wrench the knife free, and blood bubbles up from his chest. The man gurgles. He coughs. Then he stops moving.
“Who’s next?” I demand through clenched teeth as I stand, feet widely spaced. Knees bent. My grip on the knife is slippery now, but still tight. “You all wanted a turn, right? How about now?”
The circle around me widens as the men back up, gaping at me like they’ve just seen a corpse rise from the dead.
“Come at me!” I shout. “One at a time, I fucking dare you. Pretend you’re real men who don’t need to gang up on a woman and fucking come at me!”
No one comes. The circle widens, and among the faces, I see Lincoln Gray. He’s been there the whole time. Watching. “You?” I demand. “You want some? Come get it.”
He raises his hands, palms out, as if to tell me he had nothing to do with it. He was just standing there. Which is the whole fucking problem.
I turn in a slow circle, knife ready, and I make eye contact with as many of them as I can. “I see every single one of you sick bastards. I know who you are. Forget about Graham. You better watch your fucking backs, because I�
��m coming for you.”
“Sylvie!” a familiar voice shouts, and the crowd parts for Hardy, who’s carrying my backpack. He has a swollen eye and a busted lip, and through the rip in his shirt I can see that his ribs are black and blue. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fucking peachy.” I bend for my underwear and pull it on without letting go of my knife. Then I pull on my pants the same way, while the crowd finally begins to disperse.
“Wolfe,” a voice calls, and I spin around, still clutching my knife, to find Link looking at me. Pointing at the huge screen on the side of the building. On it, our names are flashing, even though they haven’t called any of the other fighters since Graham and Jack Clarke. “This way.”
The crowd parts for us. The men are stunned silent.
Hardy follows me through the first open gate down the narrow metal path toward the arena complex, and I don’t try to stop him.
“They won’t let you bring that.” Link’s looking at my knife.
I turn and slam him against the wall with one palm on his chest, my bloody blade at his throat. He stares back at me calmly, making no attempt to push me off. “Why?” I demand, and my voice sounds softer and more intense than I meant for it to.
“I didn’t touch you, Wolfe. Your beef isn’t with me.”
“Sylvie…” Hardy’s voice is tense. He doesn’t seem to know what to do.
I can’t look away from Link. “Why would you just stand there?”
For a moment, he only stares back at me. Solemn and unmoved. “If you’re looking for heroes, you’re in the wrong place. I would have thought you’d figured that out by now.”
“I’m my own fucking hero,” I growl at him.
“That’s bloody adorable. Now either kill me or let me go.”
For a second, I consider killing him. Just…pressing on the knife. Letting it sink through his flesh. No one would stop me. No one stops anything around here unless you’re Cohen fucking Roth, and someone’s willing to pay to keep you alive.
Link has earned death, if not for standing by like a spectator, then for whatever he did to get sent here. But if I kill him, they’ll pair me with someone else. Maybe someone worse. So I let him go.
He straightens his shirt, then he walks off toward the gate, leaving me alone with Hardy in the pathway. “Hey. You okay?”
“You already asked me that.” I start walking, and he jogs to keep up.
“I’m so sorry. I tried to get to you.”
“There’s nothing you could have done. There were too many of them. But I appreciate the effort.”
“Sylvie,” he says, and I don’t understand what he wants until I turn to look at him. His gaze is a silent plea.
“I’ll tell Graham you did your best,” I promise him.
The wrinkles in his forehead even out. “Thanks.”
I take my pack from him, then I turn and jog down the grass path after Lincoln, leaving Hardy behind.
The gate opens just as I get to it, and there are a dozen armed guards there waiting for us. Aiming guns at us. They wave Link through, into an open area of neatly trimmed rust-colored grass, bordered by covered walkways, and point him down the one to the left. Six of the guards follow him. The other six stay with me.
“Drop the knife,” one of them orders.
“You want the knife, you’re going to have to shoot me.” And in this moment, I think I truly mean it. I can’t go through that again. I’m not even sure I can go back into the bullpen, knowing that if they decide to give gang rape another try, there will be too many of them for me to fight—even with Graham and Hardy.
One of the guards steps forward, pistol raised.
I take a deep breath. Then I close my eyes and wait to die.
“No!” a voice shouts, accompanied by the rapid click of heels on tile. “No, no, no, no, no! Do not shoot her!”
I open my eyes to see a woman in a white wrap dress running toward me in five-inch black heels, which match her purse and belt. While I stand here in a ripped shirt, holding a bloody knife. The disparity is…surreal.
“Miss Wolfe.” She comes to an awkward stop in her heels, still several feet away. “My name is Kaya Johnston. I’m your sponsorship liaison.”
I frown, trying to puzzle through what she’s saying as an odd fog seems to settle around my thoughts. This must be shock. “I don’t have any sponsors.”
“Oh, you do now. I’ve spent all week taking calls and lining up meetings.” She turns to the guards. “Can we please put the guns down now?”
“As soon as she drops the knife.”
“Not going to happen.” I tighten my grip, to make sure they know I’m serious.
“Okay. I can understand that, considering what you just went through. So, I’d like to suggest a compromise. A lockbox. Jeremy!” Kaya shouts as she spins on the balls of her feet. “Bring the lockbox!”
Before she’s even finished shouting, a man about my age wearing a black suit emerges from a door halfway down the left hand covered path, pushing a cart on which sits a heavy metal safe. He stops a few feet away and swings open the door of the lockbox.
“Just put your things in there, and you can have them back after the fight. Jeremy and I are the only ones who have the combination. I assure you, your belongings will be perfectly safe.”
“Or, they’ll be missing completely, and you’ll turn me out into the bullpen with no way to defend myself.”
Kaya gives me a solemn shake of her head. “Miss Wolfe, it is not in our best interest to let anything happen to you. Your corporate sponsors are very excited, and as of a few days ago, there’s a lot of money riding on your success in the arena. So please, put your things in the box, so we can go get you ready.”
I don’t seem to have any other choice. So, I retract the blade and set my bloody knife in the empty lock box, followed by my backpack.
“Great. Now, if you’ll follow me…” She turns, gesturing for me to come along, while Jeremy closes the lock box. “We have a little surprise for you.” All six guards follow us, and I hear the cart being pushed along behind them.
Kaya leads me to the door Jeremy and his box came out of, and when I follow her inside, at first all I can do is stare. “This is your greenroom,” Kaya whispers, and distantly, I’m aware that there’s a camera aimed at my face, recording my reaction.
The room is huge. The floor is a sea of thick white carpet, which I’ve definitely already messed up with my filthy shoes, and the walls are paneled in what appears to be real wood—a dramatic, luxurious contrast from the metal surfaces I’ve been surrounded by since I stepped onto the prison transport.
Running the entire length of the left hand wall is a buffet table, where three people in waiter’s uniforms stand ready to serve food from at least a dozen covered dishes. On the right, an open door reveals a bright, white-tiled bathroom, and to the left of that door are several racks of clothing. Then a makeup table. And a salon chair. And—
“Sylvie!”
I spin to the right, and the second I see Graham, my vision blurs with tears.
He pulls me into a tight embrace and buries his face in my hair, as if he’s smelling it. “They showed me the whole thing live,” he whispers. “But these armed bastards wouldn’t let me back onto the yard. Are you okay?”
I nod. That’s all I can manage as I sniff back more tears.
“I’m so sorry, but…you can’t afford to cry right now. There are cameras everywhere except the bathroom.”
I nod again, still sniffling as I press my face against his chest and let his shirt dry my tears. Then I suck in a deep breath.
Graham takes my chin and tilts my face up. Then he kisses me like he hasn’t seen me in weeks.
“Close up on that kiss,” a male voice says, and when I open my eyes, I see a man wearing a lightweight camera rig aimed right at us. “Golden,” the voice says, and my focus finds a silver-haired man in a black polo shirt and pants, staring not at us, but at a thin screen he holds in one hand. “That wi
ll get a lot of play.”
“Background reels,” Graham explains. “Everything here is fair game, except the bathroom.”
“Okay, let’s get started!” Kaya claps her hands, and I realize that whatever all this is…my sponsorship liaison is in charge. Which illustrates exactly how important profit is to Universal Authority. “First, I assume you’re going to want a hot shower. Or a bath. We have time for a bath, don’t we Charles?”
The man in all black nods without looking up from his screen. “Half an hour.”
“Great.” Kaya lays a hand on each of our arms, and I’m a little surprised she’d get so close to two convicted murderers, until I realize that there are no fewer than twelve armed guards in here, watching our every move. “Honey, I saw what happened out there, and I’m so sorry.” She’s speaking softly, and she truly seems horrified. “Why don’t we give you some time alone to get yourself together? Draw a hot bath. I think there are bubbles. And there’s a bottle of hair remover on the edge of the tub, but you’ll want to use that before you get in the water, obviously. No need to shampoo, though. Renee will take care of that. So when you’re ready, come on out, and we’ll get you something to eat before we start on everything else.”
“Everything else?”
“Hair, makeup, wardrobe. Interviews. All those things you used to watch on the feeds. We have to shoot all that today, before your fight. Editors are already standing by up on the blimp, to get the footage ready.”
When I only stare at her, fighting that mental fog again, Graham wraps one arm around me. “We’ll be back in half an hour,” he promises as he leads me toward the bathroom. “There are no cameras in there, right?”
“Oh! You’re going to go in there together, then. Into the bathroom.” Kaya’s cheeks turn pink, as if that’s the most scandalous thing she’s ever heard, which is bizarre, considering what she just saw out in the yard. “No. No cameras.”
Graham closes the bathroom door behind us and immediately turns on the tub faucet. As soon as the water starts running—as soon as I’m sure it might disguise the sound—I burst into tears.
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