A curse, a garbled word, and then the two I want emerge. “Must win.”
He stares at me, unspeaking, his expression giving nothing away.
It could be the drugs making me believe what I wish to, but I think he understands what I’m trying to tell him. If given the choice, I’d choose him.
Egorov unlocks the cage and reaches in. He slaps my arm, breaking my grip on the gladiator’s black shirt.
Egorov’s going to take me out. I try to push him away, but I can’t get my hands to work.
My gladiator’s arm shoots forward, and he takes hold of Egorov’s. My eyes widen in shock, and my mouth falls open. That’s not allowed.
The henchman and the Serb fighter say sharp words in English. I don’t understand the words, but I understand the tone.
“No marks on her until we settle whose property she is,” Alexei says.
I expect the bodyguard and Vlad to hit my gladiator or at least to drag him away, but Egorov tells them something and they back away. Save it for the ring. That’s what he said. Then he holds up cat tails, one white, one black. They’re the wrong color. If I had a tail it would be light brown like my hair. Or maybe beige to match my skin. Black, no. And not white either.
“She can’t stand, so the crowd won’t see it anyway. Leave it out,” the gladiator says.
Good gladiator. I like anyone who opposes Egorov about anything, but I especially love it this time. No one ever succeeds in protecting me from Egorov, except Alexei.
Egorov argues, but I can’t understand. The English is a little too fast.
The gladiator unbuttons his shirt and takes it off, then it floats down over me. Only my feet and fingers are sticking out, so I pull them in closer, trying to get myself totally underneath the shirt. It’s like a black cape. That makes me smile a little.
There’s an argument, and then finally the shirt is pulled away.
I curse. The word comes out mostly clear.
Egorov shoves the shirt at the gladiator and sets the tails on a bench for later. He plans to parade me around on a leash when Vlad wins. With a tail in my ass. To humiliate and break me.
I hate you, Egorov.I don’t know if I say it out loud or only in my mind. I will not let him win.
My cage rolls toward the door. In the corner, the Serb pours something on the tape around his hands.
What’s he doing? He looks around, careful to keep his back to the room, but I see. What am I seeing?
Poison? He looks guilty. So yes… it must be poison.
“Alexei!”
Does he hear me? I don’t know.
“Poison!”
I’m out of the room though, rolling and rolling. Then lights glare down at me, hot and bright. I close my eyes. Hands reach in, first lifting me onto the pillow and then sitting me up. My lids lift partially, and I sway.
I can’t stay upright, so they fasten me with a scarf around the waist and put cuffs with chains around my wrists. Stretching my arms up, the chains are hooked to a bar above my head. I’m on a trapeze. But not really.
My wrists… I’m chained like a prisoner. Like I might escape. Even though it’s a cage with narrow bars. The door swings closed and locks. My body’s heavy as it dangles by my arms. My breasts bob.
Don’t move, I tell them and myself.Stop moving!
The cage is turned so I’m facing the spectator seats. The ring is to my left.
Alexei and the Serb are already standing inside. How did that happen? Time is wobbling.
Both fighters are shirtless and wear shorts. Nice thighs. Very muscular. Their hands are painted across the knuckles. No, it’s not paint. It’s tape.
