"You know," I say, "most people would be terrified right now. You just negotiated terms with a six-hundred-year-old vampire like you were buying a used car."
"I've faced worse odds in the ring."
"Have you?"
"No." Her eyes glint. "But you don't need to know that."
I fight a smile. "Welcome to the inner circle," I say. "Try not to die."
She smirks. "Same to you."
Chapter
Five
Iwake from dormancy in the guest room Maximus showed me to after our meeting last night.
The bedroom is spacious, with a king-sized bed that's far more comfortable than anything I owned as a human, blackout curtains drawn tight against the windows, and furniture that probably costs more than I made in a year of underground fighting.
I sit up and take in my surroundings properly now that I'm awake.
There's a note on the nightstand, written in precise handwriting:
Your apartment has been cleared out. Your belongings are in the closet. Training begins at 8 PM. Don't be late. –M
I check the clock on the wall. 7:30 p.m.
Thirty minutes.
I shower quickly in the attached bathroom, marble and chrome, because of course it is, and find my clothes neatly organized in the walk-in closet. My clothes, from my apartment. He wasn't kidding about clearing it out.
Everything is here. My worn jeans, my training gear, even the few personal items I owned. A photo of my sister Simone from three years ago, back when I could still see her. The receipt from my last fight, still stained with blood.
My entire life, packed into three boxes and transported here without my permission.
I should be angry about the invasion of privacy. Instead, I'm relieved I don't have to go back to that empty apartment and face the ghost of my human life.
I dress in training clothes, black leggings, sports bra, tank top, and head out to find the training facility. The compound is more alive. I can hear voices from other parts of the building, footsteps, the hum of activity.
How many people work here?
I find the training room easily, muscle memory from last night, and Maximus is already there. He's changed into different clothes, black pants and a fitted long-sleeve shirt that reveals the fighter's build usually hidden beneath his formal wear. Lean muscle. Clearly, someone who's spent centuries training.
"You're early," he says without looking up from the tablet he's studying.
"You said don't be late."
"I said training begins at eight. It's 7:52."
"Is eight minutes early a problem?"
He finally looks at me, and something in his expression might be amusement. "No. It suggests you take this seriously."
"I take not dying seriously."
"Good. That's the first lesson: everything we do here is aboutsurvival. Mine, yours, the vampires who depend on this network. Sentiment is a luxury we can't afford."
He sets down the tablet and moves onto the mats. "Last night you fought well. But you fought like you were in the ring, with rules and referees and the expectation that someone would stop the fight if it went too far."
