They release me into the yard at dawn, a full twelve hours early. Against the doctor’s orders. I was prepared to fight my way out, but the doc seemed to realize that would only do more damage to my ribs. Which would piss off my sponsors. Which would, in turn, piss off the warden.

So, they let me go.

The lockdown tone blares as I cross the deserted yard, and I hang out in the atrium for a couple of minutes, to avoid the press of inmates coming from the cellblocks.

I expect to see Sylvie and Hardy among them, and when I don’t, a sick feeling bubbles from the pit of my stomach. As soon as the crowd clears, I head into A block and am relieved to find them both in my cell.

Hardy’s on the floor, leaning against the wall next to the sink, on one of our spare bed mats. Sylvie sits cross-legged on the bed with her spine pressed into the corner. Staring at the wall. There are dark circles beneath her eyes.

She looks like she’s been awake for two days.

“Oh my god!” Her eyes light up when she sees me, and she’s off the bed in an instant, while Hardy stands. “What are you doing here?” She throws herself at me, and at the last minute I dodge her, when I realize her fist is curled around the switchblade. In a white-knuckled grip. “Oh, sorry.” She actually struggles a bit to unclench her fingers.

“How long have you been holding that?”

“A day and a half,” Hardy answers. “She wouldn’t put it down. Can’t blame her.”

Sylvie retracts the blade, then she throws her arms around me, and I fight not to flinch as I hug her back.

“I’ll get out of your way.” Hardy edges past us into the aisle.

“Thanks for staying with her, man,” I call over Sylvie’s shoulder. “I owe you.”

“No,” he says. “You really don’t.”

I turn a confused look at Sylvie. “What was that about?”

She only shrugs. “Sit down. I can’t believe they let you out early! How do you feel? How are your ribs?”

“My head and hand are all better.” I show her my right knuckle, which has long since returned to its original size and color. “Ribs are still sore. Doc says the fractures have healed, but they’ll be tender for a while. Which is why they gave me this.” I lift my shirt to show her the material wrapped around my chest. “In the infirmary, they gave me some kind of miracle IV that accelerates healing. Mending bones, specifically. I’m pretty sure they’ve been giving Roth a hit of it after nearly every fight. Kaya says it costs a fortune.”

“Good.” Sylvie runs one hand through my hair, then drops a kiss on my jaw. Back near my ear. “You’re worth it.”

“I agree,” I say with a grin. “Anyway, this band has the topical version of that IV. I’m supposed to let it continue to seep through my skin for the next week or so.”

“Well, we’ll be following the doctor’s orders, even if that means I can’t touch all of you just yet.”

“There’s still plenty of me left to touch,” I assure her, and the heat that flares in her eyes feels like…home. Like everything good that’s left in my life.

“Any trouble while I was gone?”

“Nothing to speak of.” She tugs me gently onto the bed, where we lean against the wall side-by-side. “I’ve pretty much been in here since I got back from the arena. It just didn’t seem like a good time to take a risk. Or be surrounded. Though I wasn’t sure hiding was the way to go, either.”

“There was no good move for you to make. But if you’re up for it, we should probably make an appearance.”

“I’d love some breakfast. Then a run.” She starts to slide off the bed, but I pull her back for a kiss soft.

“Your poor lip,” I murmur, rubbing my thumb softly over it.

Sylvie rolls her eyes. “You just got out of the infirmary. My split lip is nothing.” She frowns, though, as she studies my face. “That IV must have been something. Your black eyes look like they’re a week old, and your lip’s nearly healed.”

“I guess when they decide you’re worth saving, they really commit.”

“Will you stand in the doorway while I change? Just in case?” Sylvie flips open her backpack and pulls out a long white garment.

“They let you keep it?”

“Yeah! Kaya thought I’d be safer in something one-piece.” She frowns. “I guess they didn’t show you any security footage? From while you were gone? Or you would have known that…”

“Nope.” I take up a position in the doorway, gripping the bars on either side. “They let me watch feeds from the fight, though. It was a good chance to critique myself.”

“Okay,” Sylvie says, and I turn to see her wearing the white athletic gear they gave her for the arena, without the shoulder armor. “I also managed to sneak this out, and it’ll make running so much easier.” She shows me a single rubber band—the wrapped kind, for ponytails—before she pulls her hair back and secures it high on her head. “I almost feel human again.”

“You smell better than human.”

Her smile widens. “Kaya let me take the whole damn bathroom with me. I got us several new rags too. What’d you get?”

Smiling, I open my bag and show her two soft white towels.

“Nice.” She stuffs her prison uniform into her bag, then throws it over her shoulder. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

As usual, all eyes are on us as we head out of the cellblock and into the cafeteria, but this time, the gazes feel even more intense. Part of that is because they all know I was hurt in the arena. Which makes me vulnerable. Part of it is because in her white athletic gear, Sylvie stands out like a pearl sitting on top of a scoop of coal.

Because of that, this feels to me like the wrong move to make. But we spent her first week in the bullpen trying to avoid making her stand out, and that didn’t keep her from getting jumped by several guys at once, the second I headed into the arena. So maybe she’s onto something. That white suit is a constant reminder that she’s now killed four men since she got here—and that she’s ready to do it again. That she’s as much of a threat as I am.

Maybe the sooner they learn that, the better.

In the cafeteria, we stand in the shortest line, and I take a mental count of everyone in the large room, including how many of them are between us and the only exit. At the front of the line, Sylvie and I hold our right hands beneath the scanner, and the machine dispenses a meal packet for each of us. We take our food to an empty table by the wall, where horizontal windows high overhead bathe us in the warm glow of daylight.

The tables, like the stools, are made of smooth, lightweight metal and bolted to the floor. They can’t be moved.

We sit side-by-side, with our backs to the wall, and tear open our brown plastic envelopes. “It would be nice if these actually came in a breakfast variety,” Sylvie says, scowling at a packet of vegetarian pasta. “I mean, are a couple of pancakes too much to ask? Maybe a link of sausage?”

“They used to.” I rip open my own chicken and noodle entree, along with the enclosed, short-handled spork. “I once got a flat pastry pocket claiming to be a cinnamon bun, and I’ve had oatmeal three times. Once with strawberry jelly.”

“Mmm, strawberry jelly. Did they give you jelly in the infirmary?”

“They did,” I admit. “On a scone. If I’d known you had a fondness, I would have tried to sneak you a few packets.”

“Well, for future reference…” She smiles around a bite of pasta.

“You know what else they had in the infirmary? Cohen Roth.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh shit, you saw him?”

“He was in the next bed.”

“How did he look?”

“Pissed off. But healthy. I think they’re going to let him out soon.”

“Damn it.” She chews another bite. “Do you think there’s any chance we can gang up on him again, and he won’t see it coming?”

“Sylvie, if he gets out, he’s going to use every perk he has to buy loyalty from anyone he can, then he and his soldiers will come after both of us.”

“Mmm hmm.” But she’s clearly no longer listening.

I follow her focus to find her staring at a few men who’ve just come through the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She scoops up another bite of pasta, but her gaze follows the men, her posture suddenly tense. Something’s wrong.

I try to put names with the faces, but I’m coming up blank. There are three of them, two from tier three, one still stuck in tier two, as far as I know. One of them has a long, straight cut on his forearm. It’s puffy with the beginnings of an infection.

And suddenly I understand.

“That’s them?” My voice comes out like a growl. “From the morning of the fight?”

She nods. “They held me down.” A furious sound leaks from deep in my throat, and she clamps one hand on my arm in a bruising grip. “I’m going to get them. But you’re not in any shape right now to start something, Graham.”

“I couldn’t see their faces on the feed.” Or maybe I just hadn’t been able to process that. All I could see was her. And my own fear and rage on her behalf.

I start to stand, and she pulls me back down. “At least let your ribs heal,” she insists.

“You’re thinking about that backward. I just fought. The chances of me being on the bracket this week are slim. And I’m still wearing this healing patch thing. Which means that if I’m going to get hurt, this is the ideal time.”

“Neither of us can afford to get hurt. Period,” she whispers, her voice so soft I can hardly hear it. “If we’re going to do this, we have to be smart about it.”

“You have an idea?”

She nods slowly. “If they tried it once, they’ll try it again, as soon as they think I’m vulnerable. We just have to give them the opportunity…”

* * *

It takes us three days to lay the groundwork. Three days spent mostly in the yard, letting Sylvie get a little farther ahead of me every time she runs. Setting her up on one of the weight machines and leaving her on her own for a few minutes at a time, while I go help Hardy.

Slowly establishing the normalcy of Sylvie being on her own for a little while.

They believe it because she and I both just won fights. They think we’ve gotten cocky from our victories, especially with Cohen Roth out of the picture.

But mostly, they believe it because they want to believe it.

On the fourth day, Sylvie goes for a run by herself, while Hardy and I take turns on the butterfly press. We can see her the whole time, but across the yard, there’s a point where the track passes near the corner of the atrium—a small blind spot. In a normal prison, that would be a hotspot for selling contraband, but in here…

Well, where there are no guards, there’s no need to hide, so no one’s ever really given a shit about that blind spot. But yesterday, Hardy saw the three men who held Sylvie pinned to that picnic table eyeing the blind spot. Talking in hushed voices.

They’re planning to take the bait, and it needs to happen today, because every single day, the chance of Cohen Roth rejoining us in the bullpen grows stronger.

It takes every bit of willpower I possess not to watch her run. To let Hardy be the one to glance at her every couple of minutes, so their guard stays lowered. “She’s approaching the blind spot,” he says, his voice a halting grunt as he pumps out another set of fifteen reps. “They’re heading that way from the nearest table.”

“You ready?”

“Wait.” He keeps pumping. “If we go too soon, they’ll see us coming.”

“If we don’t go soon enough, we’ll be too late.” I turn just as the men start to jog after Sylvie. They’re running on grass, which means their steps are quiet, and they probably think she has no idea they’re there. “Come on,” I snap, and finally Hardy stands.

We head across the grass in a fast jog, and when the men pull closer to Sylvie, I put on a fresh burst of speed. At about the same time, Jarod, the man in the lead, comes up on Sylvie from behind, at an angle. He tackles her like a linebacker, driving her to the grass so fast and hard I can hear the air burst from her lungs from here.

I didn’t see that coming. I thought he’d just pluck her off the ground. Shit!

Before she can catch her breath, he pulls her up with one arm around her waist, his free hand over her mouth. At the corner of the building, Jarod looks up and sees me. He grins. Then he drags her out of sight, kicking and shouting into his palm.

“Fuck!” I swear as I run, Hardy on my heels. They know we’re coming, and that didn’t even give them pause.

Attacking Sylvie when I’m out of the picture is one thing. But with Hardy and me just a few yards away? Knowing that Sylvie can hold her own?

Something’s wrong.

I round the corner of the building, huffing a little from my sprint with still-sore ribs, and I nearly run right into Jarod and his friends. They don’t have Sylvie.

“Hey, Anderson, welcome to the party.” Cohen Roth has one huge hand around Sylvie’s throat, his opposite arm around her waist. Her jaw is clenched with a quiet kind of rage, and she’s not struggling. Which means she understands that he could crush her windpipe with one squeeze of his fist.

“Roth. When did they let you out?” I growl as Hardy skids to a stop on my left. He’s not winded. Which means he didn’t run fast enough.

“This morning. Bright and early. The first thing I noticed was that everything is missing from my cell. Including my mattress pads, and my pretty little bitch. I understand you’ve been keeping her warm for me.”

Evidently he’s not ready to admit that he’s also missing a switchblade.

“Let her go.”

“Or what?” Roth demands. “You’ll take on all three of my new friends at once? You think there’d be anything left of her to rescue, if you try that?”

There has to be a good move here, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is. I don’t think he could break Sylvie’s neck one handed, but he could definitely crush her throat.

“We’re going to make a deal, Graham, and here’s how it’s gonna go. You’re going to stand there like a good boy and watch me fuck your girlfriend. Then you’re going to watch them each take a turn. Every time you look away, I’m going to hit her.

“If you want either of you to be able to walk into the arena in a few days, you’re going to want to think real hard about your next move. If you both cooperate, she won’t get hurt. But if we have to get rough…” He shrugs, letting me draw my own conclusion.

That’s when I realize this isn’t about Sylvie. This is about dominance and possession. This is Roth proving to the rest of the bullpen that he’s still the man on top, after she and I put him in the infirmary. After we tried to kill him.

He has to make a move, because if he looks weak, someone will try to take him out. But it doesn’t have to be this move.

“There are better ways to make your point.” But even as I say it, I realize I’m wrong. The only other way would be Roth and his friends beating the hell out of Sylvie and me, in which case they might as well just kill us—if we’re injured, we can’t defend ourselves.

Still, maybe Roth can see reason—if he isn’t blinded by rage.

“Sylvie isn’t your problem. I was going to kill you, but she tried to talk me out of it. If anything, you should be thanking her.”

“That’s why I’m giving her the chance to get out of this without a single bruise,” he says. “All the two of you have to do is follow the rules. If Graham moves, take him to the ground. But make sure he still has a clear view. Oh, and aim for his ribs. I bet they still hurt.”

“No!” I shout as he turns Sylvie around and shoves her into the wall to my left, face first. “Don’t you fucking touch her!”

“Hold him,” Roth orders, and I pull my fists up, ready to throw down with Jarod. Which is why I’m caught completely off guard when an arm slides around my neck from behind, squeezing brutally.

Hardy.

Son of a bitch.

“Wait!” Sylvie cries, her right cheek pressed against the rough concrete wall, her eyes rolling far to the side to keep me in sight. “Please. I’ll cooperate. Nobody needs to get hurt.” But the look she throws Hardy over my shoulder tells me she’s already hurt.

“I’ve heard you sing that song before, Wolfe,” Roth growls.

“I’m serious this time. Graham’s already hurt, and Hardy… Well, Hardy’s a traitorous fuck. And I know when I’m beaten. I’ll cooperate. But you have to let him turn around. Graham doesn’t need to see this.”

“We’re not negotiating. Graham’s going to watch because he owes me some serious pain, after sucker punching me with a fucking stool seat last week.”

“Fine.” Sylvie’s jaw clenches again. “But I’m cooperating. If you’ll just back off for a second, I’ll…strip.”

“No,” I croak around the arm Hardy has bent around my throat.

“Pants first,” Roth insists, with her still pinned between his chest and the wall. “Because I know you’re not going to try to run off half naked—unless you want to toss fuel on the fire, out there.”

“Fine.” Sylvie reaches for her waistband, as if she’ll push her pants down. Instead, her hand slides into her left pocket.

In one swift movement, she pulls the knife out and triggers the blade. Then she shoves it into Cohen Roth’s thigh.

Roth bites off a scream with the determination of a man who’s well aware that announcing his weakness could get him killed. “Take her.” He shoves Sylvie at Jarod, grasping at his leg, but as she stumbles forward, she twists the knife and wrenches it from his thigh, destroying more tissue and enlarging the wound.

Roth groans deep in his throat and slaps both hands over the injury as he sinks onto the ground.

Jarod backs away from Sylvie, eyeing the blade, and that’s all the time she needs to regain her balance. She spins and kicks him into goon number two. Roth watches them both go down, but when he tries to stand, more blood pours from his thigh, between his fingers.

She’s hit his femoral artery, either in the initial blow or when she twisted the blade. If Shaw doesn’t send emergency care in the next couple of minutes, Roth is a dead man.

I elbow Hardy, then swing him around while he’s off balance and hook my foot behind his leg. He goes down hard on his back, stunned, and I throat punch him to keep him down. That won’t kill him, but he’ll be out of the way, choking and coughing for several minutes.

Sylvie flings blood from her knife, facing off against Jarod in the confined space with her knees bent, dancing like a boxer while she waits for him to strike.

Goon number three lunges at me, and I kick him in the knee. He goes down howling, clutching at his leg, trying to roll out of the way of any further harm.

On the edge of my vision, Sylvie swings at Jarod just as goon number two lunges at me. I let him take me to the ground, then, when he pulls back for an ill-thought-out punch, I shove Sylvie’s ballpoint pen into his neck.

My aim isn’t as good as hers. I miss his jugular, but he rolls off me with wide eyes, slapping one hand to his neck as if he thinks he’s going to die.

And he is. But not in the next couple of minutes.

Jarod and Sylvie are circling each other, and he’s so focused on her that he doesn’t see me. I push him toward her as I drop onto the ground behind goon number three, and she shoves her blade between two of his ribs, angled upward. Then she gives it a brutal twist—the signature Wolfe move.

Jarod falls, pulling her to the ground on top of him, and a feral snarl rumbles up from her throat as she pulls her blade free, then rams it into his left side, over and over.

Satisfied that she’s okay, at least physically, I grab goon number three from behind and apply enough pressure to his neck to close his windpipe. While he slowly suffocates, clawing at my arm and trying to elbow my injured ribs, Sylvie pushes herself to her feet. She exhales, staring down at Jarod’s bloody corpse. Then she turns to goon number two, whose hands still hover over the pen protruding from his neck, trying to decide whether or not to pull it from the wound. Sylvie drops onto him with another wild cry and shoves her knife through the other side of his throat.

Goon number three stops breathing. I drop his corpse and stand just as Sylvie pulls both weapons from number two’s neck. She tosses me the pen.

Jarod and his buddies are dead. Roth sits on the ground, deathly pale, trying to hold blood inside his body with both hands. But I can see it in his eyes. He knows as well as I do that he’s done. Not just done fighting.

Done breathing.

For a second, I consider putting him out of his misery. But he doesn’t deserve that mercy.

Instead, while Sylvie kneels in front of him and wipes her blade on his pants, her gaze as wild as her hair, I haul Hardy up. He’s still coughing and choking from the bruised windpipe. He’s not going to fight. He knows this is over.

“Why?” I push him against the wall, ballpoint held at the ready. “Just tell me why.”

“I was just trying to survive, man. Same as you. You were going to kill me anyway, so I went to Roth and made a deal.”

“You sold us out,” Sylvie spits, as her shadow falls over us both. “You fucking sold us out.”

“Why would I kill you, Hardy? You did your best that day. What happened to her wasn’t your fault.”

He only shakes his head. Then his focus slides toward Sylvie over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean it. I just wanted to feel something soft and good. Same as you.”

“You…?” I slam him against the wall. His skull bounces off the concrete surface, but still he doesn’t fight. “I trusted you. She fucking trusted you.”

“I’m sorry, man. Just make it quick. That’s all I ask.”

“Sylvie, give me the knife.”

“No.” Her shadow shakes its head from the wall next to Hardy. “He’s learned his lesson.”

“Sylvie…”

“No, Graham. He’s learned his lesson, and we need him,” she whispers. “And if I can forgive him, you can.”

“He set you up to be raped, Sylvie.”

I can practically feel her indecision. How is it possible that she’s killed six men since she got here, yet she’s still too fucking soft for this place? Too good for it.

“We can’t trust him, and that makes him dangerous. I have to kill him either way,” I tell her, without taking my focus from Hardy. “The knife will be a mercy.”

“Give him the knife, Sil,” Hardy says. “I’m done. I’m ready to go home.”

Sylvie exhales, long and slow. Then, finally, she steps into sight and hands me the knife.

I pull Hardy forward, and he drops onto his knees. I grab a handful of his hair and pull his head back, then I cut deep and fast, right across his throat.

He gurgles for a minute, coughing. Sputtering. His hands fly to his throat, trying to hold his flesh closed because even if his mind is ready to die, his body isn’t.

But it’s over pretty quickly. When his weight pulls against my hand, I let him go and step back. I wipe the knife clean and hand it to Sylvie. She folds up the blade and slips it into her pocket, then she throws her arms around my neck, clinging to me.

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Graham.” She’s not crying. In fact, she’s speaking through clenched teeth. But I can feel her pain.

She may be good at killing, but that doesn’t mean she was made for this. Or that it won’t kill her, in the end.

“I know. Me neither.” I wrap my arms around her, grateful beyond words that she’s still here. Unscathed, at least physically. “So, let’s go make a statement.”

“Prevention is the best cure,” she says, and I nod.

Roth has slumped over, staring sightlessly at the rust-colored grass between his knees. I swing my bag over my shoulder, then grab his wrist in my right hand and Jarod’s in my left. Sylvie reclaims her bag and takes the largest of the goons by both hands. Together, we drag them around the blind corner into the yard, where all activity has ceased.

The weight machines are unoccupied. The tables are empty. Everyone is standing. Staring.

As we get closer, someone recognizes Roth, even though his body is trailing behind me. That’s when the talking starts. Low-pitched murmurs.

I drop the bodies at the edge of the concrete. Sylvie drags her corpse into line with mine. Together, we stand tall, facing down everyone on the yard.

“This ends today,” I shout. “Roth is dead. Everyone who’s laid a hand on Sylvie is dead. If you still think you have a shot, take a good look, because this is your future. Come near either of us with so much as an angry look on your face, and we will fucking end you.”

Silence echoes across the yard for the span of several heartbeats.

“Who’s the champ now?” someone shouts from the crowd. “How will the final bracket work?”

“Graham’s the fucking champion, you moron,” someone else calls. “He killed Roth.”

“No, I didn’t.” I grab Sylvie’s hand and lift it into the air. “This is your new champion.”