“Then we’ll let you eat.”
I turned and trudged toward the doors.
“Your ten minutes start now.”
Somehow, I managed to jog.
When I emergedfrom the shower, my clothes were gone. In their place, I found gray leggings and a fitted tunic—also gray. It was as if someone had decided to deny color to the women who lived here. I searched in vain for underwear. At least whoever had taken my clothes provided socks (gray) and boots (no surprise, also gray).
I quickly braided my wet hair and returned to the arena.
When Flynn noticed me, his eyes widened. Then he licked his lips and poked Grayson in the ribs. “Change your mind. Please?”
“No.” Grayson glared at me as if my presence offended him. “Follow us, Shield.”
“Haven.”
He turned his back on me.
I was hungry enough to drop the argument and trail after them.
They led me to a sumptuous dining room crowded with round tables covered in white linen and set with sterling silver. A buffet groaned beneath the weight of bacon, sausages, ham, pastries, and baskets of fresh bread, crispy roasted potatoes, a dizzying variety of fruits and cheeses, and a mammoth platter of grilled vegetables.
I ignored the gazes of the men who already occupied tables. “Is there coffee?”
“Shields eat in there.” Pierce pointed to a cased opening that revealed a second, smaller dining room.
The smaller room’s walls were painted gray. The tableswere gray metal. The seats were hard gray stools. It was all depressing. Especially when I noticed a buffet that appeared to hold nothing more than a pot of oatmeal.
Pierce’s chilly expression morphed into a smirk. “Enjoy your breakfast.”
One of the men shoved me toward the gray dining room, and I stumbled forward.
A few girls huddled at the tables. None of them looked welcoming. Not a single girl would meet my eyes. I understood—I was new, and likely to attract attention. And attention was the last thing these girls with wan, haunted faces wanted.
I helped myself to lumpy oatmeal and took a seat at an empty table.
In the men’s dining room, Grayson, Teal, Pierce, and Flynn loaded their plates, stopped at the buffet’s end for steaming mugs of coffee, then claimed a table.
Flynn caught me looking and lifted his coffee mug in mock salute.
Asshole.
I lifted my cup of tepid water and pretended I didn’t care. I did. Then I dropped my gaze and focused on forcing myself to eat the slightly burned oatmeal.
“You’re new here.”
I looked up at a man of medium height. His features were heavy, and an ugly scar marked his left cheek. As he studied me, a malicious light flamed in his muddy brown eyes. No good would come of this. I swallowed a spoonful of plain oatmeal—no butter, no sugar, no cinnamon—and grimaced.
He leaned forward, invading my space. “Answer me.”
“Yes. I’m new.”
A cruel smile curled his thick lips. “You don’t like your oatmeal?”
“Not particularly.”
“Get on your knees. I’ll give you something you’ll like better.” He unfastened the fly of his pants.
