Metal squeals, and the ship lurches beneath me. I jerk on the chains pinning me to the bed, but that's a reaction born of panic. I can't free myself. That truth has always been the cornerstone of my existence.

There’s a roar like the very planet is breaking apart, then the wall to my right just…crumples. Like a toy crushed underfoot. A great screech comes from beneath me as the floor rips, and I shriek as the bed lurches upward, thrusting me toward the ceiling.

I’m about to be crushed.

Then, finally, everything goes still.

I blink, and the ceiling comes into focus just inches from my nose. The room has been squashed until the left wall is no taller than my forearm. On my right, the windows have shattered and what I can see of the floor appears to be buckled, but if I can slide off on that side of the bed, I should have enough room to move around.

Except that I’m still handcuffed in place.

Frustration explodes from my throat in a sound that is half scream, half growl. I jerk on the restraints again, and—

My arms and legs pull free, broken lengths of chain trailing after them onto the bed. I'm still cuffed, but when the floor buckled beneath the bed, something must have cut through the chains. I sob in relief as I roll over—the ceiling is far too close for me to sit up—and the chain attached to my left wrist slides across my bare thighs.

These cuffs are the old-fashioned, just-for-kink kind that use an actual key, and last night, after Phoebe finally uncuffed me, she put the key in the nightstand drawer. Please, please let it still be there…

I pull open the drawer and rifle around in it, glad the furniture is bolted to the floor, so the night stand hasn’t slid across the newly uneven room. The drawer holds lubricant and a small collection of Gerald and Phoebe’s sex toys, but there, flat against the bottom of the drawer, is the little scrap of metal I need.

It’s only the key to a set of infuriatingly effective sex-play handcuffs, but it may as well be the key releasing me from this whole fucking prison planet, based on the joy I feel as the first cuff falls away from my wrist.

Contorting to reach my ankles is harder, but in seconds, I’m free. I slide off the bed, only to discover that a few inches from where I’m squatting, there’s a jagged, gaping hole in the floor, torn by a tree that was sheered of all its branches when it poked through the bottom of the ship.

Wait. I’m on the second floor. The huge viewing room is directly below Gerald and Phoebe’s suite, and around that sad carcass of a tree trunk I can see what’s left of it, through peeled back layers of metal floor. The emergency strobe is still flashing, and in that harsh red light, the disaster that was once the viewing room looks like it tried to make out with the surface of Rhodon and got fucked hard for its trouble.

I can’t tell where the forest floor ends and the blimp begins. The only upside is that there are no bodies, that I can see.

Wait, there’s another upside. There are no guards. No guests. No people at all. It looks like everyone else was evacuated, either on some fancy flying life raft or to the top floor. Which means there’s no one to keep me from leaving.

This is my second chance. My opportunity to flee captivity like the rest of the women from the Resort did. Even if I’m several months late.

I wonder what zone we crashed in.

I scramble into action, carefully rounding the gaping hole in the floor on my knees, on my way to Phoebe’s trunk, which is still standing open against the wall. Though it’s slid several feet farther from the bed, in the crash.

Still kneeling, I paw through her things in the flashing red light, cursing that rich bitch’s love of soft, delicate fabrics. All of this crap will fall to pieces if it’s used for anything more strenuous than a few nights on the dance floor. But finally, at the bottom of the trunk, my hand slides over a thin but strong piece of material. I pull it out with a triumphant squeal. Athletic pants. Expensive ones, if I have my guess. They’ve probably never been worn outside a climate controlled private gym, but they’ll be a hell of a lot more practical on the planet's surface than all this silk and satin crap. Though part of me thinks it would be hilarious to prance around a prison planet in a sparkly silver evening gown.

But I should probably keep a lower profile.

There isn't enough room to stand, so I lie on my back and shimmy into the pants. Then I dig in the trunk again until I find an athletic bra—the fit is close enough—and a loose-fitting blouse to go over it. The material is soft and flowing, and nicer than anything I've ever worn.

Digging through Phoebe's trunk again, I claim the last sports bra and two more pairs of athletic pants. Phoebe’s underwear is in a special little pouch on one side of the crate, and instead of grabbing a handful, I take the whole damn pouch. She must have something I can carry things in…

There. A white leather travel satchel. It's bulky and it’ll show dirt the second I step outside the blimp, but if my designer workout clothes alone don’t put me in the running for best-dressed female inmate, fuck ‘em all.

I stuff the clothes and the pouch full of underwear into the satchel without bothering to empty it first, then I go back to the trunk and fish out all the socks I can find. Into the satchel they go, except for the last pair, which I pull on. Phoebe’s sneakers are half a size too big, but I’m counting my blessings so hard by now that I’d put on a pair of stilts, if that’s all she had in her trunk.

Next I grab her toiletry bag and dump that into my fancy new satchel.

Food. There’s probably some in the main room, and I’m going to need it, but I’m terrified with every second that passes that someone will be coming for me. Guards or rescue workers.

With a groan, I decide to risk it. A girl’s gotta eat.

The wall between this room and the next got crumpled a bit during the crash, and the door is sort of…crimped in place. But to the left of it, there’s a brand new rip in the metal wall, and the widest part of it looks big enough for me to shimmy through. I push my new bag through the hole first, then I follow one foot at a time, holding my breath at the tightest point. A jagged edge of metal snags on my blouse and scratches my stomach, then I’m through.

I grab the bag and race across the now slanted floor toward what’s left of the bar. A dozen or so packages of snack food have slid to the floor in a jumble of broken liquor bottles. One by one, I pluck them from the mess and drop them into my bag. There’s one unbroken bottle. It’ll add to the weight, but I grab that too, because when Maci broke us out of the Resort, she insisted we take anything we could trade for food, shelter, or clothing.

Nothing is free on a prison planet.

I hoist the heavy bag onto my shoulder, then turn toward the door. It’s crushed into place, but on the opposite wall, two of the windows have been torn by the impact with the ground. Ripped open like an aluminum container, even though they’re made of some kind of transparent material. The edges look jagged and sharp—like metal, not like polymer—but I think I can fit through.

Because most of the first floor was crushed upon impact, I’m only about ten feet from the ground. I grab a soft blue throw blanket still artfully draped over the back of an armchair and hang it out the window so that it lies flat against the slanted exterior surface of the blimp. Then I climb through the jagged opening and sit on the blanket with the satchel in my lap.

My weight gets me moving before I’m entirely ready, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming as I slide down the metal slope. Twice, torn bits of metal snag my blanket, then my feet hit the ground and my bag tumbles onto a pile of dirt scraped up during the crash.

The impact of my landing jars every joint in my legs and echoes all the way up my spine. But I’m out. I’m uninjured. I’m as free as a person can expect to be, serving a life sentence on a prison planet. Now I just have to find shelter—someplace safe for me to ride out the effects of Phoebe’s injection. Which I should start to feel in ten minutes or so, by my best guess.

I dust my satchel off and sling it over my shoulder, then I shake out the throw blanket, fold it in half, and drape it over the bag. Though as cold as it is out here, I may soon have to wear it like a shawl.

There are no other passengers making their way out of the ship. I don’t even hear any voices. Am I the only survivor?

No. Surely the guests and guards all headed for the top floor. They’re probably safe and sound, complaining about bad lighting and broken liquor bottles while they wait to be evacuated on luxury life rafts. Or whatever. And they're not going to step one foot onto the surface of a planet full of violent criminals. Which means I actually have a good chance of getting away.

I study the moonlit landscape as I climb over the pile of dirt. There’s a wide swatch of forest behind the blimp. In fact, the ship sheared off hundreds of treetops on its way to the broad, empty field where it crashed, but if and when someone discovers I’m missing, that’s the first place they’ll look. If they look at all. So I head in the opposite direction, pushing my way through waist-high grass that appears almost crimson in the moonlight.

I try not to break many stalks, because if I carve a path through the field, they won’t have to search for me—they’ll be able to follow my trail.

There are no buildings in sight, but there’s a dark streak against the moonlit horizon that can only be another stretch of woods. That’s my best chance to get out of sight before the rescue workers arrive.

When I’m far enough away from the crash that I don’t think they’ll notice my trail, I start running for the woods. I can already hear shuttle engines behind me; the rescue teams have arrived.

I might be the only woman in the history of space and time who’s ever run away from a rescue.

I’m huffing long before I make it to the woods. I've never been very healthy, and months spent locked up with no real exercise have taken their toll. But I keep running, determined to get out of sight before one of those shuttles notices me.

I burst through the tree line into the forest and skid to a stop, panting, bent over with my hands on my knees. My satchel swings forward like a pendulum, and the weight of it nearly knocks me off balance.

For several minutes, I stand just inside the woods, catching my breath while I watch shuttles descend upon the crash. There’s a whole swarm of them, buzzing around it like buzzards circling a dying animal. Not one of them turns in my direction. I don’t think they saw me. That’s one crisis averted, just as the next rears its ugly head.

The drug is starting to kick in.

I need to find someplace safe to…be. Before it hits me full-force. The forest is less than ideal for that, but anything is better than being cuffed to Gerald and Phoebe’s bed. At least I’m alone. At least I won’t have to suffer through it for someone else’s amusement. As a toy to be played with.

I’m running again, crashing through the woods as if I can outrun my problem, but the harder I run, the faster my blood pumps and the more the stimulant seems to affect me. I can feel myself growing wet. My lower parts plumping with increased blood flow. The very act of running delivers friction so minuscule I wouldn’t even notice it under normal circumstances, but with the hormones rushing through my system, sensitizing everything… That intimate ache begins to build even faster.

I need relief. I don’t want it—that’s the very last thing I want right here and right now. But I need it. Literally. Like I need to breathe.

My body needs relief.

My nipples harden beneath my stolen athletic bra. My face begins to flush. I feel like I’m ten minutes into the best damn foreplay I’ve ever had, even though I’ve made no intimate contact with my own body. But it’s not the good kind of foreplay. It’s the type that’s gone on too long. The type that makes you feel tense and desperate. The type that might be fun with a kind partner, but is hell on earth with partners who won’t let you finish, but won’t leave you alone either.

Partners like Gerald and Phoebe.

But they’re not here.

I run until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I notice that I’m more focused on remaining on my feet—on fighting through the vicious need building inside me—than I am on finding shelter. When I realize that I’m doing myself more harm than good, I stop.

If I touch myself… If I just get it over with, I’ll have a few minutes of peace. Half an hour, maybe, before it all builds up again. If I’m lucky. But during that half hour, I'll be able to think, uninhibited by the demands of my body, about what I need to do next. Where I need to go. How to survive out here, on my own.

I groan as I spread my blanket out beneath a tree. This is not how I wanted to spend my first few minutes of (relative) freedom. But thanks to Phoebe and Gerald, I have no choice.

I sink onto the blanket and lean back against the tree trunk, my bag next to me. My eyes close. Then I exhale slowly and slide my hand into my stolen athletic pants. My heart is racing. My pulse is a roar ebbing and flowing in my ears. And the ache between my legs is unbearable.

You’d think it’d be easy, considering the state I’m in. But it isn’t. My need is so great that my own fingers aren’t enough. I need…more.

That was the whole problem last night. The last thing I wanted was for one of those sadistic bastards to touch me. But after a couple of hours of this torture, I would have given anything for anyone to touch me.

Not for pleasure. For relief. For an end to the torture. What Gerald and Phoebe showed me is that those are not the same thing.

But right now, my own fingers are all I have, so I attack the problem hard and fast. And despite my frustration and the same bitter self-loathing I felt last night—even though there’s no one here to see me writhe, to hear me beg—before long, it starts to feel good.

Thank god.

That intimate pressure builds and builds as I touch myself, and with every stroke of my clit, it feels better. I feel better. I hate Gerald and Phoebe for doing this to me, but having the freedom to take care of myself feels...amazing. Unbelievable.

Bark catches in my hair. My inhalations become desperate pants until my jaw clenches while I chase my release those last few inches toward a mental cliff. And finally, I fall over.

“Ah...” My body clenches around nothing and my hand seizes up with cramps, but I keep going, hoping that the longer I can make this last, the longer I’ll be able to go without it again. And—

A twig snaps to my left. I freeze. My eyes fly open and the last breathless exhalation bursts from my throat as my pleasure and relief die in a wash of humiliation.

Two men stand over me. Watching. The one on the left is on the thick side of an average build, with dark eyes and a wicked cleft in his chin. The one on the right is very big, with longish, dark hair, and light eyes that might be blue, though I can't tell for sure in the dark.

What the hell? Can’t a girl jack off in peace, in the middle of the damn woods?

I pull my hand from my pants while I stare up at them, trying to slow my racing heart. This sucks, but that was a damn fine orgasm. Probably good for forty-five minutes of peace before I’ll need another go. Maybe a full hour. And these fuckers had to—

That’s when I notice the way Cleft Chin is looking at me. As if there’s a flashing arrow pointed at my head, attached to a neon sign that reads, “Free Sex!” Which is when I realize this is a lot more serious than a simple loss of privacy. These bastards want something. And they look entirely capable of taking it.

Out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire. Way to go, Mallory.

“Um…hi.” I wipe my hand on my pants and immediately regret that when Cleft Chin’s gaze catches on the motion. “I was…” Well, I guess it’s pretty damn obvious what I was doing. “Okay, I’m just going to be on my way then.” The fact that I’m soon going to need exactly what I just had doesn’t mean I want it from them.

I stand and start to pick up my blanket, but Cleft Chin steps on it with one filthy boot. “Why don’t you stay awhile?” He frowns as he studies my clothing and blanket. Then his focus finds my bag. “You were in the crash?”

I nod, backing away until my spine hits the tree.

“Who are you?” His gaze rakes over my things again, and I understand his misunderstanding.

“Oh, no, I’m no one. Just a prisoner. See?” I hold my hand out and show him the prisoner number tattooed on my right palm. “I stole the clothes from a lady on the blimp.” I toss my head toward the crash site. “It went down about half an hour ago.”

“Yeah, we were headed there to scavenge,” Cleft Chin says as he swings his pack onto the ground. “Turns out we might not need to.”

“Oh. You want my stuff?” I pick up my stolen satchel and clutch it to my chest while I study them. Cleft Chin is easily twice my size, but his friend dwarfs him. He can hardly put his arms down at his sides, because his lats are so big.

That’s a man who gets whatever he wants. And he looks…hungry.

Please, god, let his hunger be for food.

“Most of this won’t do you much good,” I say as I unzip the satchel. “The clothes won’t fit you, and even if they would, they’d look pretty ridiculous. But I have a little bit of food.” I’m going to need every bite I came by in Gerald and Phoebe’s room, but if I don’t share, I might not live long enough to eat it.

I angle the bag toward them, to show off several packets of gourmet nuts, snack bars, and potato chips.

“Holy shit is that what I think it is?” The man on the left shoves his hand into my bag and comes up with the bottle of vodka. “It’s still sealed.” He claps one palm against his friend’s bulging chest. “This is our lucky day, Barrett!”

But Barrett is still staring at me with this odd look on his face. I don’t know what that look is.

Cleft Chin rips the seal from the bottle and unscrews the fancy cap. He turns the bottle up and gulps, and when he finally stops, the neck is empty.

I wish I’d taken a drink for myself. My evening is starting to look…unpleasant. Although, that’s really been the case since the moment Gerald opened the door to his suite.

Cleft Chin offers the bottle to his friend, but Barrett only shakes his head, without looking away from me. I don’t think he’s taken his focus from me even once since they caught me…you know. “Your loss.” Cleft Chin shoves my bottle into his open backpack. “Let’s see what else you’ve got…” He reaches for the satchel, and I let him have it, because no packet of peanuts is worth my life.

Only he doesn’t even look into the bag. He just drops it on the ground next to his, then he steps closer until I’m pinned between the tree trunk and his body. “Damn, you smell good.”

The same can not be said for him, but his body odor is the least of my problems at the moment.

“Sweetheart, what do you say we put this blanket to some good use?”

“I…um.” He won’t listen if I say no. But that’s nothing new. “If you guys want to get to the wreckage before UA sets up a perimeter, you should hurry.” It’s far too late for that, of course. But I’ll say anything to get rid of them.

“I think there’s plenty of plundering to be done right here.” Cleft Chin turns to his friend, without stepping back. “You good with seconds? Or do you wanna go first?” Barrett doesn’t answer, so his nameless friend turns back to me with a shrug. “The big guy doesn’t complain much, so I try to give him dibs, every now and then.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “It’s hard to tell what he wants, but if he wants something and doesn’t get it…” He shrugs. “Well, let’s just say that his temper tantrums look a lot like cold-blooded murder.”

“He’s a murderer?” I glance at Barrett over the other guy’s shoulder. “Shouldn’t he be on death row?”

“He was. You’re in zone three, sweetheart. This place is like the afterlife for gladiators. Champions are released here at the end of every season, and Barrett’s one of ‘em.”

Zone three. Fuck. Out of the frying pan and into the damn inferno. Obviously Varian isn't going to be my only problem out here.

“Wait, this zone is full of murderers? Are you one of them?” I ask Cleft Chin.

“Yeah, I've killed, but not before I got here, and 'crimes' you commit on the surface don't count. I’m just your run-of-the-mill convict unlucky enough to wind up in a zone full of former gladiators. And right now, I’m the only thing standing between you and that big bastard.” He plucks at the hem of my blouse. “So why don’t you take all this off and play nice?”

I glance at Barrett again over his shoulder. He has broad shoulders and a square chin. And a beautiful mouth. He hasn’t said a word. But he’s still watching me.

I nod. I understand how this works. I haven’t escaped from Gerald and Phoebe; I’ve just traded them in for another set of monsters.

Cleft Chin slides his hands beneath my blouse—I didn’t take the time to button it—and I close my eyes. “You’re lucky to have found us,” he says as he kneads my breast through the sports bra. “You keep us happy, and we’ll make sure nothing bad happens to you. Anyone else would have taken you to the city and cashed you in.”

Cashed me in? As in…sold me?

Not again.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter as he pushes my blouse off my shoulders, tugging me forward a little to free it from the bark at my back. Lucky. You’re lucky, Mallory. This is probably considered romantic, by prison planet standards.

For all I know, anyone else might have killed me first, then fucked my corpse.

Still, I can’t stop the silent tears that fall when he shoves my sports bra up to expose my breasts. Every time I think things are going to change for me, they just get worse.

“Damn.” He lifts my left breast, as if to show it off. “Barrett, how long has it been since you saw an honest-to-god set of tits? I mean, they could be a little bigger, but would you look at—”

A heavy thunk echoes through the forest. Cleft Chin’s hand drops from my breast.

I open my eyes to find Barrett standing in front of me, holding the nearly full bottle of vodka. Blood drips from the thick base. Cleft Chin lies unmoving on the ground in front of me, his head wound leaking blood onto the rust-colored soil. His dark eyes staring sightlessly into a beam of moonlight.

Barrett gazes at me with an empty look in his eyes. Then his fist tightens on the neck of the bottle.