Since that night two weeks ago when she had pleaded with me to let her die and she had spoken to me in Russian after I had called her a whore, we had barely spoken. That night I had let myself get too close. I had asked her too much. Listened to her too much.

Felt too much.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory—of how she had told me to get a guard instead, of how much that pissed me off, the repulsive thought of her under a Wraith. Something inside of me had broken when she’d pleaded for that version of hell.

She wasn’t a whore. I hadn’t meant what I had said. I was pissed, lashing out. I hadn’t known she was Russian. Her dark hair and features made her appear Georgian. It only made me want her more.

She was like me.

Master still sent her every night. I released inside her when the drugs made her need me, but we never spoke. She slept in the corner of the room, and I stayed on my bed. She knew I didn’t want more. She never asked for more. I gave only as much as I was willing to give.

Master’s plan to fuck with my mind wouldn’t work, I couldn’t let it. I’d defy him tonight, and he’d punish me by taking 152 away. I glanced down at my hands wrapped around my Kindjals’ handles at that thought. They shook.

My mind clogged, it stabbed with the sound of 152’s moans as I took her as mine. Her touch was sensuous as her hands scraped on my back. The look in her eyes as they cleared from the drug in the aftermath of our releases was so welcome. It was when her true self came through. The look that showed me her gratitude. The look that seared me on the spot.

Krasivaya.

Footsteps on stone outside the cell made me walk to the door. 667 was walking past. He was dripping with sweat, marked in slashes from what looked like a bladed chain. He flicked his chin as he walked by.

His mona arrived only minutes after he had. She swiftly moved into his cell. As she passed by, I studied her for the first time. She was attractive, nothing like 152, yet pretty enough. But it was the look of worry on her face as she ran after 667 that made my stomach flip over. She cared about him enough to run to his aid after he had been injured. I frowned. I couldn’t remember a time, ever in my life, when someone comforted me. Then again, the only times I had been injured were as a child figuring out the run of the cage. Learning what weapons to choose, and hardest of all—learning how to kill. I had been alone ever since.

Seeing 667’s mona run to him, her affection for him was obvious and unapologetic. For a moment, it made me regret the decision I had already made.

Another cell door opened. 140 pounded past, his expression one of a male that was minutes away from sending a soul to hell. In a flash, my regret for losing 152 tonight was gone. Because here was a male that was a shadow of his former self. He had allowed himself to want and need a mona. That had been his ruin.

The crowd outside roared. Just as I was about to move from the doors, someone stepped out of the shadows. A guard stopped before me and flicked his chin in my direction. “Master has sent a message. He said that your opponent belongs to one of the biggest investors. He has bought several shares in many gulags from Master over the years and is planning to enter many fighters in the tournament. Master has demanded that you slow the kill and not simply slaughter.” The guard stepped closer, holding his gun toward me. “Master said that if you don’t obey, there will be consequences.”

My top lip hooked in amusement. His taking 152 from me was the best punishment I would receive.

The guard backed away, shaking his head.

My legs moved from side to side as I warmed up my feet. I envisioned the kill in my head. I would duck right, then left, strike left, then plunge my Kindjal into him. The blade would pierce his heart and he would fall to the floor. I opened my eyes. Just as I did, 140 came walking through, covered in blood spatter and with the wide, staring eyes of bloodlust.

He rushed past, panting and high from the kill. My adrenaline spiked; I’d be up next. When the guard walked down the hallway, I cracked my neck from side to side. When the cell door opened, I sprinted down the tunnel to the pit. With every step I envisioned my opponent’s blood hitting my chest and the thrill I’d feel at disobeying Master. The crowd roared as I ran forward, Kindjals at the ready. Then something from the crowd caught my attention. As I fended off my opponent’s strike, his bladed pickax narrowly missing my head, I looked up at the crowd. A flash of light caught my eye again. At the very back, directly behind Master’s seat, was a guard … and in his arms was 152.

It took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. Then it made perfect sense. A guard had a knife to 152’s throat. The light was the blade glinting off the pit’s lights.

Immediately, rage ignited inside me. My eyes next dropped to Master, as I ducked under my opponent’s swing. When I saw him, he was smiling, victory in his dark gaze. His hands gripping the arms of his seat was the only indication that he harbored doubt that I would let her die.

Feeling my opponent approach, I crouched down. The wind from his ax passed, blowing through my hair. Turning, I drove the blunt end of my handle into his kidney, the huge dark-skinned man bending over at the hit. I backed away, steeling my emotions. I narrowed my eyes on my opponent, forcing myself to turn off my concerns about the mona.

Ignore her. She means nothing. Let her die, I told myself, turning my Kindjals in my hands, readying to strike. My opponent turned, his close-shaved black hair and sheer height coming into view, almost matching mine. His teeth were bared as he faced me, gripping his ax as he prepared to strike. Replaying my plan in my head, I ducked left as he charged, then made a quick right. But as I approached and the bladed tip of his ax rose high, I did not use the anticipated gap to my advantage. Instead, I let the blade’s sharp edge slash my upper arm.

The crowd roared as 419, my opponent, drew first blood. Unable to stop myself, I glanced up at 152, who was still as night in the guard’s arms. Even from this distance I could see her eyes shining in pure terror.

Just let me die, I heard in my head, 152’s soft voice from two weeks ago. I shook my head, trying to forget about her up there, with a knife at her throat. I tried not to care. But just as I couldn’t let her die on the floor of my cell before, I wouldn’t let her die now. Something inside me, feeling like a dull ache in my chest, wouldn’t let me.

Sighing deeply, I ran at my opponent, smashing the Kindjal’s blunt handle to his face. He responded with a punch to my cheek. And I put on a fucking show. I gave Master what he wanted. Hit after hit, blow after blow. 419 and I were both cut, bleeding and bruised. I had gashes on my arms, gashes on my torso, and swelling on my cheeks. But I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could have beaten him in seconds if Master hadn’t forced me to submit. 419 was nothing. As a contender, he was a joke. Yet I made this fight look like I’d barely hung on.