That’s my last coherent thought because, as always, after an exam, the needle pierces my neck, and I ride the wave of agony that flood my veins.
Fucking ket.
8
Wraith
The Coliseum’s frenetic energy radiates down to the dungeon while I wait for Thomas and Lyle to escort me to the arena. Or maybe it’s me, lit up like a supernova, as I pace the width of my cell. Adrenaline got me going. Ripe to kill whoever stands opposite me tonight.
The crowd’s wild, their intensity shaking the building’s foundation. Four matches done with one more to go. The main event. I’m Atlas with the weight of the world resting on my shoulders because Jamie will be in the cage with me. Not in body, but in spirit. I survive, she survives. But if I hit the mat dead, she does, too. But I can’t think about her. Not now. Gotta keep my focus, or else I’ve lost the fight before I enter the octagon.
I bang my fists together as Thomas and Lyle storm into Elite. Thoughts, doubts—they fly out of my mind. I’m in the moment and at the ready. I breathe in through my nose, filling my lungs until they’re about to burst. Blow the air out through my mouth.
Lyle tosses black shorts into my cell. He nods at my dirty gray sweatpants. “Off.”
“How’s about you take a flying fuck off the tip of Thomas’s dick?”
Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t run my mouth.
Lyle makes a talking gesture with his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Keep it up, asshole.”
“Or what, sweetheart, you’ll cry?”
“For fuck’s sake, children, we all know you hate each other. Let’s get this done.” Thomas plays along perfectly. “Just put on the shorts, Atticus.”
I shove off the sweatpants. Because I’m a prick, I plant my hands on my hips and stand there bareass and smirk at Lyle. Shit, even though there’s not a part of my body they haven’t mutilated in some way, I’m still an impressive sight in all my glory. That’s not empty arrogance or conceit. I’ve worked for this body. My strength (and a shitload of determination) has kept me alive for six months. So, yeah, I’m remarkable as a motherfucker naked.
“Here.” Thomas hands me a groin guard.
I snap to attention and give Thomas an exaggerated salute. “Yes, sir.”
Hey, have to keep up appearances. If I’m not an asshole, I’ll set off more alarms than if I try to waltz right out the front door. I pull up the groin guard and tuck my junk behind the shock supporter. Next is the shorts—no need for other protective gear when the goal is for one of us to die. But shots to the balls would put too many halts to the action, and Crane can’t allow that to happen. Have to keep the crowd happy, and lulls in the fighting make for bad business.
“Turn around, Atticus,” Thomas instructs.
I spin and press my wrists together. Soon as he tightens the zip ties, I face him and see worry etched across his face. “Stow that shit.”
He gives me a curt nod and wipes his expression clean. “Let’s go.”
I’m shuffled out of Elite and across the Hub. Adam, that asshole, gives me his customary thumbs-up from behind the safety of the control booth. I want to break off those thumbs and shove them up his ass.
And then we’re in the corridor. Hurrying toward the arena as another threesome makes their way down toward the dungeon. Goddamn, the fighter is beat to hell. Barely upright, but alive. We lock eyes as we pass each other, two unlucky pricks who were in the wrong place at the wrong time when Crane’s men grabbed us.
At the end of the corridor, Thomas bangs on the door. It swings open, and we walk by the guard. Lyle gets swept up by the crowd’s thunderous roar. He loves the adulation as he marches me toward the cage. He acts like he’s a superstar. The reality is that Lyle is a standard-issue jerkoff with an affinity for hurting people.
Thomas stays by my side as we make our way down the aisle through the crush of bodies. The horde is nothing but a blur of faces. Their cheers are deafening, demanding blood. Mine or my opponent’s. Doesn’t matter. Either of us will do as long as one of us is carted out in a body bag. My heart’s a jackhammer rattling my ribs, but I stay focused on the octagon that’s lit up by the overhead spotlights. The only time I drag my gaze from it is when I pass the front row. Part of me hopes I’ll see Jamie sitting there like she was last time. Part of me dreads the possibility. But she’s not. Crane is alone, that motherfucker, all smug, like he’s already won.
Prick lost the war the day he was stupid enough to take me captive.
I just haven’t killed him yet.
Lyle shoves me in the cage. Thomas steps in after me. The back door opens again, spilling light into the arena. Door closes, and curiosity gets the best of me as I search out my opponent through the crush. Crowd’s on their feet, blocking my view, damn them. Anticipation gnaws at me, sucking the air out of the room. Twists my gut in knots. Lyle steps away for a better view at who’s coming up the aisle, and I use the opportunity to my advantage.
“If this goes wrong, you get Jamie out,” I yell over the noise to Thomas.
He shakes his head. “She won’t go without you.”
“Bullshit. You make her go.”
