Throughout history this had been a common way to rid the Soulless. The Etruscans, Aztecs, Romans and Greeks all had their own version of gladiatorial warfare. Now, we had bigger arenas and cameras and advertisement breaks.
I leaned back in my brother’s seat, my eyes wide on the next video. The Battle from last year. Magnus had fast forwarded to a specific moment.
Dig Graves.
What a stupid name.
Dig Graves stood proud over a heap of bodies bleeding out from his victory. Clothed in all black with a hood over his head, he looked up to the camera, perpetually grinning. He lifted his blade toward the screen and blew the viewers a kiss.
The rims on his red heart-shaped glasses glinted.
He laughed.
Though it was on mute I could hear that laughter ringing in my ears. I could smell leather and blood. I could feel him, those strong hands slapped over my mouth, that sculpted body pouring over my own in my bed. His sharp jawline, his sweetly sloped nose, that flick of black hair across his forehead. His deep voice, calling mePrincess.Those slutty sunglasses.
My hand dove between my legs on instinct, arousal pooling and shivering me into delirium. I groaned and ripped my hand away, tightening it into a fist.
God damn, I hated this guy.
Seven years he had survived.
My brother and I watched with anticipation each year, waiting for the man who had slaughtered our guards and broke into our house to kidnap me to finally succumb to a gruesome death. Yet he survived—no,thrived. The asshole loved it in there. He killed more than he breathed.
I settled the rage in my chest.
In three days, I would turn twenty-five.
And a day later?
Uandra was hosting the ninety-eighth Execution Battle.
I took out my scrunched piece of priceless paper.
3
Magnus was in his bedroom holding up a photo while he masturbated.
“Oh freckles!” I banged my head against the door frame as I turned quick, trying to leave without making a noise.
I had not knocked, wanting to surprise him, yet it was me who got the surprise.
“Duckie?” Magnus shouted, alarm pitched in his voice.
“I’m going!” I turned my back to him, ready to flee. “I didn’t see anything!”
“Wait! Stay!”
Cringing, I paused.
A chorus of cuss words flung out of my brother’s mouth as I heard the bedsheets shuffling, his feet crashing onto the floor, his zipper and belt quickly done.
“Alright, turn around.”
I did and he messily stuffed the photo into his pocket.
He had a photo in his pocket.
I had a piece of paper in mine.
