“You may proceed,” he states.
The sound of rolling wheels gets closer to me, and Devin walks up the steps onto the platform I’m displayed on. The Lords are always putting on a performance. A Spade brother is no exception. If anything, ours is meant to be bigger. Bloodier.
We’re their entertainment. Rich old bastards with too much time on their hands.
“If you wanted to give me a physical, all you had to do was ask,” I try to joke, but my voice is hoarse from lack of communication during the days I was locked in the cell.
The corner of his lips twitch as he starts to fill the syringe from the vial.
I tense, knowing exactly what it is. Adrenaline. It’ll last about twenty minutes and then I’ll fucking crash.
Looking up, I fist my hands to see if I even have feeling in them. Thankfully I do. I haven’t been hanging here for long.
Devin grabs a hold of a rag and shoves it into my mouth. I have enough time to bite down on it before he stabs me in the chest, momentarily taking my breath away.
My wrists are freed, and I drop to the floor. Ripping the cloth from my mouth, I grind my teeth, kneeling on my hands and knees.
Fuck!I’m gasping for a breath when a knife is dropped in front of me. “This is all you get,” a Lord announces. “Good luck.”
I’m surprised they even gave me a weapon.
The side door opens and a man enters the arena. He’s around my height, at six five, but he’s bigger in overall size. Probably has fifty pounds on me. I learned at a young age that it’s not the size that matters but the speed.
He doesn’t waste a second and makes a run for me.
I take the opportunity and throw the knife, but my aim is off and it flies right past his face.
“Goddammit,” I hiss.
My body is tingling, my heart is racing. I’m shaking. I’ve got to try and calm my breathing so I can gain some control.
He hits me like a freight train, picking my boots up off the floor and carrying me backward with his momentum.
We hit the stage, knocking the breath out of me since I softened his fall. He recovers quickly, rearing his fist back to hit me in the face, but I shove my fist into his windpipe. He grips his neck, gasping for breath, and I kick him off me.
Getting to my feet, I grab his shirt, yanking him off the stage and onto the floor. He goes to get to his feet, but I kick him in the face, knocking his head back. Blood splatters my boots, and I do it again.
He groans, rolling to his side. I try to get my vision to clear as I scan the arena for the knife they gave me, but I can’t see shit.
It’s the adrenaline. Everything is intensified. The lights are blinding and I’m sweating profusely.
“Fucking bitch.” He groans, getting to his hands and knees while blood drips from his busted face.
I kick him again. And again. I’ve never done drugs, but I imagine this is how they make you feel—unstoppable.
My skin tingles and the blood rushes in my ears. I can hear the whispers from the Lords watching from the second story. They want me to lose. Until you wear their brand on your chest, they want to watch you fail.
Spotting a blurry figure on the floor, I make my way over to it while my opponent rolls around, spitting out teeth. I pick it up and I notice my father across the arena.
Fucking piece of shit. I want to let the bastard down, but I know winning will upset him more.
I turn to face the guy I’m supposed to kill to see he’s made it to his feet. He stands with his hands fisted by his sides. His chest and jeans are covered in blood. He pulls his busted lips back, trying to be intimidating, but it’s useless when all he has is a blood-covered gummy smile.
I tighten my grip on the handle of the knife and widen my stance. Giving him a smile, I wait. He’ll come to me. Why work so hard when he can do it for me?
Letting out a scream, he rushes for me like before. But this time I’m ready.
I slam the knife into his stomach, stopping him in his tracks. I pull it out and he falls to his knees at my feet. I grip his hair, yank his head back, and slice his neck from ear to ear.
