Hardy and I spend the rest of the week making sure Sylvie has an escort every minute of the day. He’s not as strong a fighter, so I only leave him with her when I’m near enough to come to his aid. Like while I use the weight machines. I can hop off and be across the yard in two seconds.

For the moment, my position in the new pecking order seems to be enough to keep her safe, at least while I’m nearby. In part, that’s because I beat to death the first two men who tried to grab her. If anyone else had stepped in to help them, the outcome would have been drastically different, but no one wants to risk an injury that could get them killed in the arena. Because unlike Roth, most of us don’t have corporate sponsors willing to pay for medical care.

Presumably, his sponsors have set their sights on a few other top tier fighters, for if and when he loses, but no one knows for sure who those are. And the men nearest the top are the ones with the most to lose. Which makes them the least likely to take a big risk.

However, men who expect to die in the arena at the end of the week have no reason not to make a grab for her. Those are the bastards we have to watch out for.

Sylvie was mad after I killed the first one. She thought beating him would be enough to teach him a lesson. But what she can’t seem to keep in mind is that it isn’t the guy who grabbed her who needs to learn a lesson. It’s everyone watching to see how he fared. When killing the first one didn’t stop the second, I think she started to understand.

Fortunately, since then, it’s been pretty quiet, and we’ve settled into a routine.

While Hardy and I take turns on the weight machines, Sylvie runs on the track, with the spring-loaded knife in her pocket. I join her for about half an hour every day, to keep up with my own speed and stamina, but I spend most of my time building strength. Normally, I would also spend serious time grappling with Hardy, but that isn’t possible with no one else to watch out for Sylvie.

She doesn’t use the machines, because though she’s very strong for her size, if the men see her max out at less than half what most of them can lift, they’re going to start remembering that they can overpower her. Which will eventually lead some of them to try.

Instead, after lockdown she builds strength through exercises that involve lifting her own bodyweight—every imaginable variation of pushups, sit-ups, squats, lunges, planks, and triceps dips on the edge of the bed. When those become too easy, I collect a bunch of water pouches, fill them, and tie them together with shoestrings to make a weight belt for her.

She never complains. She never hesitates. In fact, the thing she says most often, in our cell at night, is more. And while I know she’s asking for more weight, more difficulty, more of a challenge, every time I hear the word come across her lips, I remember the way she demanded more of me in bed, back before we knew about the security footage.

And I really want to give it to her.

* * *

“You’re going easy on me.” Sylvie rolls away from me and onto her feet in one fluid motion, and for about the millionth time, I am awed by how graceful all her movements are. How controlled, yet seemingly effortless. But I’ve seen the work she puts in. The effort. She’s earned every bit of admiration, even if I’m the only one who’ll ever appreciate it.

“That’s because we’re on concrete, but the sand will have a lot more give, so—”

“Believe it or not, I have walked on sand before, Graham.” She’s angry, but not at me. She’s angry at the circumstance, and I can’t blame her. It’s not fair that she can’t train the way everyone else does. That’s just one more strike against her, in a place where the strikes add up quickly.

But life isn’t fair. In here, neither is death.

We only have about an hour between lockdown and lights out, and every night she has to choose whether to split that time between strength conditioning and sparring, or to neglect one aspect of her training in favor of the other.

“Okay, smartass, escape my mount position.”

She rolls her eyes. “Escaping it isn’t the issue. My challenge is getting close enough to hit without getting hit.”

“That’s everyone’s challenge.”

“Yes, but my wingspan is among the shortest in the bullpen. Possibly the shortest. Which makes that more challenging for me than for most.”

“But if you can’t get off the ground, you can’t avoid the blows at all. Come on. On your back.”

“Now we’re talking…” Across the aisle, an asshole named Roger sits right in front of the bars of his cell, watching us. “Put her on the ground.”

From farther down the row, others call out for him to narrate what he’s seeing, and I have no doubt that half of them have their hands in their pants, wishing they were in my position. Or at least Roger’s. He fought for that cell. In fact, I think he squatted in it most of the day. That’s become a regular thing now, as inmates who can’t get close to Sylvie jockey for a position that will let them watch her.

Watch us. Together.

If I get here early enough tomorrow, I’m going to close that cell before anyone can claim it.

In a place with no screens, we’re the live entertainment. But so far, our audience has been disappointed, and not just because most of our bed is blocked from view by a concrete wall. At night, with her pressed against me, despite my achingly hard cock and the moisture I know I’d find between her thighs if I were to touch her, we’ve been unwilling to do anything that involves removing clothing, to avoid creating another porn video for UA to market.

I can only imagine how much they’ve already made on the first two. And how much anticipation those videos have built for audiences seeing Sylvie on the sand for the first time.

I’m not really worried about her first fight. She’s hands-down stronger and faster than most of the other rookies. I’m worried about the next one. And the one after that.

“I’m not new at this, you know,” Sylvie reminds me as she sits, then rolls onto her back on the row of mattress pads we’ve spread over the floor. One of them is ours. The other three came from Roth’s cell. They won’t stay put, which makes them practically worthless, yet there’s no way we can get any serious work done on the concrete floor without hurting each other.

I straddle her, careful to stay north of her hips, with my fists up to defend my face. “Okay, take me down.”

“My pleasure.” Her knee slams into my back before she’s even finished speaking, throwing me forward, forcing me to catch myself with my hands on either side of her head. Before I’ve found my balance, she hooks her left leg around my right one and her left arm around my right arm, near my shoulder, then grunts as she rolls us over in one smooth motion.

I lock my ankles at her lower back in a locked guard position, but Sylvie pushes herself to her feet with her hands anchored on my shoulders, pulling my lower body up with her, as she holds the rest of me down.

Then she punches me right in the jaw. Hard.

“Damn it!” I hook my leg behind hers and drop her to the ground, but I’m only able to do that because she’s laughing. “What happened to pulling punches?” I demand as I pin her to the mat by her shoulders.

“This play fighting isn’t going to get me anywhere.” She’s still smiling, but beneath that, she’s serious. She’s…worried. “I’ve taken men down in class over and over. None of them as big as most of the guys here, but their weight can be as much of a detriment as an advantage. But in class, the guys tap out, then we all stand up and go for a beer. That’s not going to happen on the sand. I need to learn how to finish them off, Graham.”

“You can come finish me off,” Roger calls from across the aisle, and all around us, men laugh, as if that’s the cleverest thing they’ve ever heard.

“Come on.” I stand and reach down to pull her up, then I start stacking mattress pads on the slab of concrete that passes for a bunk in the bullpen. Roth was really onto something with that. A decent night’s sleep will change your life. “Let’s talk in bed.”

“That’s not what the bed’s for, man,” Roger says, and Sylvie doesn’t even glance at him. The threats and obscenities have become so pervasive that we hardly even hear them anymore. They’re like white noise. Vulgar, salacious white noise.

With the bed “made,” we wash up at the sink. Sylvie’s always careful to stay out of sight as much as possible, because the more skin the other men see, the more riled up they get. It’s not like they’ll ever forget she’s here, but we go out of our way not to remind them. Which is why we haven’t ventured into the showers even once since she stepped into the bullpen.

Sink baths suck, but they’re much safer than a shower room that can hold up to twenty men, but only has one exit.

“I really need to wash my hair. Do you mind?” she asks, when she’s dressed in her cleanest change of clothes, still damp from the sponge bath.

“These are the moments I live for.” And I’m only kind of kidding. Though I don’t envy her the burden of washing a head full of gorgeous curls, I love having her bent over the sink in front of me while I pour water from one of the pouches onto her head.

She’s only washed it once since she got here, but by the end of that experiment, I’d gotten pretty good at lathering up our bar soap and scrubbing her scalp. This time, just like last time, we have nothing to dry her hair on, so I help her wring it out over the sink.

When she stands, wet curls falling halfway down her back, she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Fuck the cameras,” I mumble as I pull her close for a kiss, plunging my hands into the wet mass of her hair.

And now I’m rock hard with her pressed against me, torturing both of us.

Sylvie groans as she backs away. Then she sinks onto the bed and piles her hair up over her head, to keep it from soaking her shirt. She won’t be able to finger-comb it until it’s dry, and even with me helping, that’ll take at least an hour.

“You should really consider cutting your hair,” I whisper as I crawl onto the bed with her. Spooning her in our favorite position. “It’ll be a liability in the arena.”

“I know. I wish I had some way to tie it back securely.”

“They might do that tomorrow. During the prep filming. There usually isn’t much fuss over rookies, but with you, who knows.”

“That’s the only reason I haven’t cut it yet,” she admits. “I’m hoping that if I wait and do it as part of the show, they’ll have something easier to work with than my switchblade. I’ve seen them do that for some of the men who come in with long hair.”

“Yeah, we get a lot of those. After the first time their hair’s used like a handle by their opponents, they’re eager to cut it, even if that weakens their appeal.” Which can ultimately be just as damaging as long hair. The less on-screen appeal a fighter has, the less chance there is of him gaining sponsorship as he progresses through the brackets. And without sponsorships, there are no weapons, lifelines, or medical care.

But in the end, all of that—the cameras, the interviews, the fight reels, the sponsorships—is just noise distracting us from the goal. Survival. When it comes down to it, no matter how many people are watching, you’re alone on the sand with your opponent, and all that matters is your ability to choke the life out of him. Or throw a punch hard enough to crack his skull and scramble his brains.

Unfortunately, Sylvie doesn’t have the strength for either of those.

“I hope you’re not squeamish,” I whisper as I pull her close, trying to ignore the erection making demands between us.

She laughs, and her body bounces against mine, deepening my ache for her into a bone-deep need. “Graham, I’ve stabbed two men in the throat since I got here. And one in the eye.”

“I know, but are you willing to do that with your bare fingers? Because you can’t take a weapon into the ring, so your best bet for ending the fight is going to be tearing soft tissue.”

For a moment, she just breathes deeply, the back of her lungs expanding against my chest, and I understand her well enough by now to know she’s truly thinking about what I’m saying.

A week in the bullpen with Sylvie has been like a month in any normal, non-prison relationship. Like six months in some relationships. And not just because we spend all day, every day together. It’s because every day here is life and death. Because we’re watching out for each other every single second. We can’t afford not to.

I feel like I’ve known her all my life.

“So, I have to tear out his throat, whoever he turns out to be. That’s what you’re saying?”

“Yes. Or bite into his jugular. Or stick your finger right through his eye. I’m not sure you could reach far enough into the brain to actually kill him, but that’ll incapacitate him, which will give you a chance to deal a death blow.”

“Holy shit that’s…revolting.” Sylvie cringes. “But it’s not like there’s a pretty way to die. Not in here, anyway.” She’s quiet for a few minutes. “Who do you think it’ll be? Out there with me. Against me.”

I’ve been trying to answer that question for days.

As near as I can tell, there are around a dozen rookies, other than Sylvie, and she could be paired against any of them. “The worst-case scenarios are Brack and Evan.”

Brack is big. My size. Sylvie’s speed and technique will even the playing field a bit where size is concerned, but I’ve seen Brack grapple. If he gets her on the ground, she’s in trouble. Which is why I keep pushing her to get out from under me on the mat.

“Evan worries me,” she admits in a whisper, and I can only nod. He’s among the smaller of the men, but he’s lightning-fast and his repertoire of martial arts moves is acres deep. He’ll make it to the next round. He may make it to the top. Hopefully she won’t have to face him until she’s been here a while.

Sylvie rolls over to face me and hooks her left leg over my hip. Pulling me close. “What about you?” she whispers, so the other inmates and the cameras can’t hear us talk strategy.

“I’ll be fine.”

“I want to believe that, with Roth out of commission. But we both know tomorrow could be it for either of us. Or both of us.”

“It won’t be.”

“You don’t know that.” She scoots up and presses her mouth to mine, at an angle, then she tugs at my lower lip with her teeth.

I groan as I kiss her back, trying not to think about the cameras. About all the jealous bastards listening from the other cells. Then my tongue finds hers, and there’s suddenly nothing else to think about. Until her hand slides down my chest, into my underwear, and she grips my cock like she owns it.

And oh, god, she does.

“Let’s say goodbye tonight. The right way. Just in case,” she whispers against the shell of my ear, and my cock jumps in her grip, even as the rest of me wants to protest.

“It’s bad luck to say goodbye. Like tempting fate.”

“Bullshit.” She sinks her teeth gently into my earlobe, then flicks her tongue against it with a hot, wet pressure. “If you die tomorrow and I have to come back here alone, I’m going to hate myself for spending the past week lying next to you, not touching you when I had the chance.”

If I die tomorrow, she’s going to have bigger problems than whether or not she and I had sex tonight. But she doesn’t need me to tell her that.

“What about the cameras?” I whisper, but I’m already sliding my hand up her side, beneath her shirt. Already cupping her breast, rubbing my thumb over her nipple. It pebbles instantly, and she presses her breast harder into my hand.

She’s going to win this argument. I know that even before she pulls her shirt off and says “Fuck the cameras.” Throwing my own words back at me. She’s going to win because whether or not this is my last chance, I can’t lie next to her for another night and not touch her.

I can’t.

“I knew you had a secret exhibitionist fantasy,” I whisper as I lift myself and slide her under me, shielding as much of her from the camera as I can, despite what I’ve just said.

She laughs, her wet hair spread out over the vinyl padding. “I really don’t. But I’m not thinking about the rest of those bastards right now. I’m only thinking about you.” She pulls me down for another kiss, and her hand finds my cock again. She strokes me in long, smooth motions until I’m moaning into her mouth. Until I feel like it’s been a year since I’ve had her, rather than a few days.

Until my balls tighten and I feel like I’m going to explode all over her hands.

“Slow down, Sylvie,” I beg her, my voice half-caught in my throat. “This isn’t where I want to be when I come.”

Her brows rise, giving her a sweet and innocent-sexy look that makes me want to tear her clothes off and fuck her until her skin flushes and her mouth gets that swollen, abused look from being kissed too hard. Until she can’t form words, other than my name.

“Where do you want to be when I make you come, Graham?” She starts to shimmy down the bed beneath me, licking her lips, and oh god, I want to let her do exactly what she’s promising with those wet, parted lips.

But I grab her arm to stop her.

“As amazing as that sounds, I can’t let you do that on camera.” Just thinking of the screenshots and viral clips that would circulate with my cock in her mouth is enough to make me murderously pissed, even as the thought of hitting the back of her throat makes me so hard I almost hurt.

I want to feel the wet warmth of her mouth. I want to look down and see her lips wrapped around me. But most of all, I want the privacy to do whatever the hell we please.

“I would give anything for a set of bedsheets, just so we could hide under them,” she says, echoing my wish with eerie timing.

“This isn’t quite the same, but…” I pluck her shirt from the floor and drape it over her breasts, then I stand and position myself in front of the camera while I slide her panties off, slowly enough to make her squirm. For a second, I enjoy the sight of her spread out in front of me, as well as the fact that from this position, I’m the only one who can see that.

Then I pull her to the edge of the narrow bed and drop onto my knees, hoping my head blocks the most pornographic shot.

“Wait.” She props herself on her elbows, clutching the shirt to her chest, and the sight of her looking down at me, with the V of her thighs on the periphery of my vision, is the single most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. “Why is it okay for you, but not for me?” she demands, but the breathless quality of her voice says she’s not really objecting.

“Because I don’t care what kind of footage they get of me.” And we both know that images of my head between her thighs won’t get half the clicks that shots of her mouth around my cock would. “So, lie back.” I have to taste her.

Sylvie relents, and I lick a long line from the bottom of her opening up to her clit, pausing for a dip inside that makes her clutch at my hair the way she clutched at my cock seconds before. I’m pleased, though not surprised to find her already wet and swollen, and I savor the first taste of her as she squirms beneath me.

“Mmm…” she breathes when I slide two fingers into her, arcing up in search of that slightly rougher patch inside her, as I circle her clit with my tongue, over and over. Her thighs tense, and I feel her fight to relax them as her pleasure builds. As she starts to thrust against my fingers. And when I look up, still stroking her while my thumb takes over for my tongue, I realize that a shot of her face in this moment, with desire drawn in the long line of her throat, the wet sheen of her lips, would be every bit as erotic as an image of her spread out on the bed, fully naked.

“Graham,” she moans. “Please…”

“How can I deny a woman with manners?” I whisper. Then I close my lips over her clit, sucking gently as I continue to pump into her.

“Oh, god,” she cries as she comes on my fingers. Against my tongue. As her hips thrust up and her body clenches around me.

Dimly, I’m aware of the obscenities flying around the cellblock, as they listen to her pleasure, but I only have ears for her sounds right now. The slick, wet slide of my fingers inside her. The soft pant of her breathing. The scratch of her nails against the padding beneath us. She’s a symphony of lust, and it is all mine.

“I need you inside me,” she demands softly.

I’ve never been so willing to take an order. Or a woman.

I hook a hand behind her knees and turn her so that she’s lengthwise on the bed again, then I crawl over her body, tucking one of her legs around my hips, then the other.

“This is why I can’t concentrate when we grapple,” I whisper. “Your closed guard makes me hard every damn time.”

“Then you’re not thinking about the fight,” she teases. And she’s not wrong.

I push into her, and she clenches around me, still so wet and swollen from her orgasm that my own need is more of a demand at the moment.

“Fuck the cameras,” she repeats as she arches into my thrust.

“What?”

“Nothing. I mean, this is great, but right now, I really want to ride you like a fucking rollercoaster, without giving the world an X-rated show.”

Oh, fuck, I want that too. “How about a compromise? Put your shirt on.”

She looks intrigued as she pulls her tee over her head without sitting up, and every movement she makes seems to push me deeper inside her, a tease my cock can’t stand for much longer. When she’s covered from the waist up—both a relief and an utter fucking tragedy—I scoop her up until I’m sitting on my own heels with her straddling me. I angle us so that my back is to the camera, which means our voyeurs can see almost nothing of her, except her face.

“Ride me, Sylvie.” Then I lean back a little and give her free reign.

Her eyes light up, and she begins to move, bracing herself with a grip on my shoulders. And a warm, tight grip on my cock, buried deep inside her. Her hips pump in and out, squeezing me with every thrust in a circular motion so hot that I have to enjoy it from both angles. So I let my hands glide down her sides to grip her ass. Not directing her movement.

Experiencing it.

Her pace is criminally patient. Slow, thorough, and blisteringly hot, drawing sounds out of me with every stroke. I have to fight the selfish urge to speed her up, because the truth is that this is an exquisite torture. Pleasure and frustration with every tight, wet second.

I slide one hand beneath her shirt, and she’s damp with sweat, her abs flexing with every motion, breasts bouncing against me, through the material between us. I roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pinching it lightly, and she throws her head back, her eyes closed in concentration. I lean in and lick the length of her throat. Then I slide my hand into her hair and pull her down until I can claim her lips.

She groans into my mouth, and her rhythm picks up speed. She takes me deeper, grinds harder, until I can’t stand it. I can’t wait. I grab her hips and rock her hard against me, over and over, until she cries out, clenching around me.

I explode inside her, and she milks me, grinding out the last of her orgasm as I pump into her again and again.

“Damn,” she whispers, collapsing against my chest, still cradling me deep inside her warm, wet grip. “Now I can die happy.”

I take her chin and make her look at me. “Don’t you ever say that again. This wasn’t a goodbye, Sylvie. It was a fucking promise.”