This woman was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
And she was standing in the heart of death, surrounded by predators who would tear her apart for sport. I spotted, the bruises already forming on her cheekbone, the line of dried blood in the center of her lower lip.
My chest tightened. My pulse hammered in my ears. I couldn't look away—couldn't stop cataloging every detail. The way she held herself despite the fear. The set of her shoulders. The defiance in her eyes even as her hands trembled.
She was terrified.
And she was magnificent.
"So?" Roone's voice came from below, startling me. "You get your look?"
I dropped down, my boots hitting the ground harder than I'd intended. My heart was hammering, my blood running hot in a way that hadn't to do with the hunt and everything to do with the woman I'd just seen.
"Why did you want to see her?" Roone asked, his tone curious now. "You don't strike me as the type who pays for company."
"I was asked to help her," I said, the words coming out rough with shame. I should have tried harder to keep her out of Persico's clutches. A fool's errand since I hadn't know the time of place of her arrival, but I felt it anyway.
Roone went still, his reflective eyes studying me in the darkness. I saw the moment understanding clicked into place—the way his whiskers twitched, the slight tilt of his head.
"Help her," he repeated slowly. "As in get her out."
I didn't answer. Didn't need to.
We'd known each other too long for lies. Roone had been here when I'd first arrived, had watched me navigate Persico's world, had kept his mouth shut about things he'd seen me do.Things that would've gotten me killed if the wrong people knew. And I'd done the same for him.
Trust was a rare commodity in Fange City. But somehow, over the years, we'd built it between us.
"You're insane," Roone said finally, but there was no judgment in his voice. Just statement of fact.
"Probably."
He was quiet for a moment, and I could practically hear him thinking, weighing risks and rewards the way he always did. "You know I can't help you with this. Not directly. Persico finds out I'm involved—"
"I know," I cut him off. "I'm not asking you to."
Roone's whiskers drooped. "Word is Persico's planning to use her as a prize in the pits."
The world tilted.
The pits. Where the worst of the worst fought for scraps and glory and the right to keep breathing. Where violence was currency and mercy was a weakness that got you killed. Where champions won prizes—weapons, credits, slaves.
Women.
My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat. I'd seen what happened to prizes in the pits. Seen the way winners treated their rewards, the casual brutality, the assumption that winning gave them the right to break whatever they'd claimed.
I couldn't let that happen to her.
"Thanks," I managed, my voice tight.
Roone gave me a look that said he knew exactly what I was thinking and thought I was insane. "Your funeral," he said again, and disappeared into the shadows.
I stood there for a moment, my hands clenched into fists, my mind racing. The pits. Six fights to win the prize—that was how Persico ran his games. Six opponents, each one more dangerous than the last, until only the strongest remained.
I could do six fights.
I'd done worse.
The walk to the outskirts of the city felt longer than it should have, my boots crunching on debris and broken dreams. The fighting dome rose ahead of me—a massive cage of metal mesh and salvaged hull plating, big enough to hold a crowd and brutal enough to contain whatever violence happened inside.
