“Dad’s betting against you, you know,” Jett laughs, walking backwards away from us.
Rowan’s footsteps falter, his gaze following where Jett is pointing. Looks like Norman is walking away from another booth with a ticket too.
“Guess we’ll see if your super-secret training is really all that,” Jett taunts. “And when the entire crowd sees how much you’ve failed, then it’smyturn to play with the omega.”
It’s Rowan’s turn to grip the railing of the balcony with white knuckles.
“You bet on the guys,” I murmur softly, lowering my head so a curtain of my hair hides the fact that I’m more than a speechless accessory.
“I did,” Rowan grits out. “They’ve got bad odds, but that just means we make more money when we win.”
“So you do believe in them.”
“I’ve got to,” he says, shooting me a heavy, tired look. “They’re our only hope.”
My gaze darts towards the fighting cage where a couple more handlers carry in a table full.
“Are thoseknives,” I gasp, my eyes going wide and my hands flying to my mouth as I try and suppress the nausea rising in my gut.
“Yeah,” Rowan says, pursing his lips at the sight of the weapons. “Shit, I should’ve put another bet down that Ash would be the first at the weapons table too. Oh well. I think with the bets I put down we’ll have a good chance of winning a lot, if things go to plan.”
It takes everything I have not to turn to him and shake his shoulders. How can he be talking about winning a bet when there are, presumably, four angry alpha fighters with access tokniveswho’re going to try and hurtmyalphas!
My strawberry shortcake scent grows bitter and stale as I try—and fail—to swallow down my rising fear.
“They dull the knives,” Rowan says, trying to soothe my increasing panic. Unsuccessfully, I might add. “The fightersare trained not to kill their opponents. Dead fighters don’t make for very good stock.”
The scars on Rage and Ash’s bodies start to make sense. They’re the kinds of scars that you can’t get from just fighting with fists. I guess the knives being dull means the fighters survive. Mostly.
“But some of them don’t listen to the rules!” I hiss through my teeth. “Like that last fight!”
“That’s why all of them have collars,” Rowan says, his gaze darting between my eyes.
He shifts ever so slightly closer and I can tell he’s fighting the urge to tuck me into his side to calm my nerves.
But that kind of physical affection isn’t a good idea here. We have roles to play.
Him the new up and coming feral alpha trainer who uses me, the new omega tool and plaything.
Not the shy beta who always gives me the hoodie off his own back when I show any hint of being cold, who got me all the supplies for a nest I never dared to dream about.
The buzzer sounds and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Two thick metal gates swing open and there’s a beat of silence, like the entire crowd is collectively holding their breath.
A flurry of movement comes barreling out of one of the tunnels, kicking up fresh sand as it sprints towards the weapons table.
I catch sight of Ash’s dirty blonde buzz cut before he grabs two of the knives before swiping off the other three on the table and kicking them into the sand under the table, all before the first fighter of the other team even makes it out of the tunnel.
It hits me then. Ash is hiding the other weapons.
None of the other fighters are going to spend time digging around in the sand to find the other knives, not when there’s a fight right in front of them. That leaves Ash with the only two knives in the ring.
Thefirst alpha from the other team, a large man—larger than Ash—with a bald head and a litany of scars, comes barreling towards Ash, his arms outstretched and ready to take him to the ground.
Ash dodges, using the other alpha’s momentum to kick him forward, making him stumble. That gives Ash the perfect opportunity to slash at the back of his thigh with a knife.
Griffin and Rage appear a split second later, Rage charging at the next fighter who comes out the tunnel.
