“Each winner will see another week with the society’s generosity, but those who lose their round will enter the pool for the Culling. Remember: The one who holds attention, holds position. The other does not and is not deserving of the Guard’s magnanimity. The Culling begins now.”
The crackle of sound cuts, and the weak, ominous music returns.
I stare at the screen, my mouth open as I watch the other girls across the other rooms begin to scream and yell. At least I think so; I can’t hear them. “We’re just ants to them to poke and prod until they decide to cook us in the sun. How can they possibly think this is okay?”
Juliette snorts. “Nervous you’ll lose?”
I whip around and squint at her. She’s primping herself. Fluffing her long hair, adjusting herself, she’s even … stretching? “How can you say that?”
She ignores me with another eye roll, and I want to march over there and slap her. I’m pretty passive, or have been, but her cavalier attitude … like these men aren’t playing God with our lives. We’re pure entertainment for them. People to use.
Juliette shrugs and attempts to check her reflection in the darkened monitor moments before the video feed swaps. Her eyes aren’t fearful; they’re hungry. Shewantsto be watched. Somewhere along the way—between being taken, trapped, and used—she’s found something in it. Or maybe she needs to, like that’s the way her mind can cope. Being wanted is a power in itself.
She doesn’t flinch, her voice doesn’t waver, she’s not scared. She’s ready to flaunt herself and turn it into a game—Juliette cracks a smirk—maybe she already has. Could I beat her? Win?
I’m not sure if I pity her or if I’m terrified of her.
Be brave.
Bloom where you’re not meant …
An aching itch bothers me, and I scratch at my bare stomach, tears welling in my eyes. I don’t have her confidence. I don’t want these men viewing me, voting on me.
What if I refuse?
What if I refuse to dance for them like a puppet?
How am I supposed to pretend this is some sort of competition, some depraved version of your classic prime-time show?
“I wonder how many they’ll ship off from the Culling.” Juliette pipes up, and I dart my gaze away from where I’ve been staring at her.
“Anyone passthatinformation down?” I ask.
She shoots me a glare—at the sarcasm in my voice, even I’m surprised by it—but she answers anyway. “Nope. Although there was a rumor that a girl escaped a year and a half ago, or something. I guess she was one of those chosen to be cut andsent overseas, but she got out. I don’t know. You know how it is when you first get here. Everyone tries to help by tossing information at you. I can’t remember, and there’s a strong possibility it got lost in translation. Maybe she didn’t make it out at all.”
I gnaw furiously at my lip. Did Slade help her escape? Will he help those who don’t make it out of this? I thought I saw him last night, but perhaps that was my mind trying to conjure hope he’d save me. Pretty sure his stupid comic books have latched onto the optimistic side of my brain. He’s an EV member, and yes, he has his own agenda, but he’s still a member. And he … he had to have killed Bishop, right?
It’s like my thoughts of him conjure Juliette’s. “I wonder if Slade will enjoy the show?” she asks, more to herself. A slow, lazy smile curls at the corner of her lips, but before it fully forms, she tugs her lower lip inward.
It’s hard for me to tell whether Juliette has accepted her role, is playing a part, or is just plain crazy.
Something uneasy twists low in my gut, and despite the dread of it all, I wonder the same thing. Will Slade enjoy the show?Whowill he enjoy? A rage bubbles up from the caverns of my chest, and I hate myself for thinking that, for wondering alongside her. I don’t care.
But still, quietly, selfishly, as his piercing gaze from my nights at the lake house slices through my thoughts, I wish his attention might land on me instead.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SLADE
Graves yaps in my ear as my grandfather stares at me from across the room. He’s already positioned at the reserved table for the Eight. It takes balls of steel to sit there when he hasn’t completed the Severing. He must believe he’s a shoo-in.
I have no idea what Graves is droning on about. Something regarding his daughter visiting from Florida, whom he hasn’t seen since her mother took her away, and how he’s worried. I’ve never heard Graves sound concerned about anything that wasn’t EV-related or tied to money, but through the broken words and blurred sentences, I catch it—the edge of worry buried in his tone.
Whatever. I don’t care.
All I can think about is tonight and the stage they’ve flooded with cameras for the live stream, and—I glance back toward my grandfatherstillstaring. I’ve got to get out of here.
Thea.
