They’ve dressed Link in gray, with black accents and matching black hand wraps. No shoulder armor. His stance is wide. Well balanced. At least, as well-balanced a stance can be on shifting sand.

“This isn’t personal,” he says, and I wonder if the cameras can pick that up. I can’t remember ever hearing anything on the feeds other than grunts, shouts, and the impact of each blow.

“Would you feel like you need to tell me that if I were a man?” I ask, as we begin to circle each other, fists raised.

“You’re not a man,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You might not want this to be different. But this is different.”

“For you,” I counter. “For me, this is just more of the same.”

He darts in for a jab, and his right fist glances off my jaw as I dance out of his way. I may feel that later, but right now I feel nothing but adrenaline.

We circle each other some more, and the silence from the crowd is eerie, as if they’re as tense as I am. I block it out, focusing on Link. He’s a boxer. His stance is perfect, his left foot forward, facing me at an angle. He holds his weight on the balls of his feet, his knees bent, constantly moving. In a heartbeat, he can lunge at me or back away.

He darts in for another blow, and this time he splits my lip, on the left side. I stumble back, and he presses forward, on the offensive, until I land a kick on his ribs.

He’s good on his feet. Nimble and fast. He holds his elbows in, hands up, chin down, protecting his face, yet still ready to jab. To dodge. As fast as I am, I can’t beat him on my feet. But if I can get him on the ground…

He jabs again, and I dodge. We circle. And circle. And circle.

Link throws another punch, another miss, and as he retreats, I kick, a grunt tearing free from my throat with the effort. My shin connects, hard, and he stumbles to the left. I spin into another kick before he can regain his balance, and now he’s on the defensive.

I dart in with a jumping kick and catch him in the side of the neck. He’s off balance again, and he drops his arms just for a second. But that’s long enough. I kick him in the sternum, and he stumbles backward. Then he goes down.

I drop onto him with my full weight, my knee on his chest. Ribs crack, and he grunts. I start swinging, but he’s guarding his head with both arms, and I can’t get a shot in. If he gets back to his feet, I’m in trouble.

So I drive my left fist hard into his groin. Once. Twice.

Link howls and drops one arm, trying to cradle his ruptured man parts before he remembers that despite what his body is telling him, his head is actually a more vulnerable target.

I drive my fist into his nose. Cartilage crunches. Blood spurts. I stand, and as he turns onto his side, trying simultaneously to cough blood from his throat and push himself to his feet, I see that he’s left his neck vulnerable.

This is my chance—the only way I’m going to walk out of this arena.

Don’t think. This time it’s Graham’s voice in my head.

I suck in a deep breath as I lift my right leg. Link tries to roll away from me. I drive my foot down on the side of his neck as hard as I can, just below his chin, and I hear a thin crack. In the next heartbeat, I raise my left leg, transferring all my weight onto my right foot.

His neck breaks with a gruesome snap that jars my whole body. My entire being.

Lincoln Gray goes still. His hands fall limp on the sand as I remove my foot from his neck. He blinks once. Twice. He gasps. Then the rapid swelling of his spinal cord disrupts blood flow and interrupts nerve signals leading from his brain, telling his organs to function. Without those signals, everything just…stops.

It was a one in a million impact. I don’t think I could repeat it if I tried.

For a second, I can’t move. I just stare down at him, stunned.

Then the audience bursts into a foot-stomping, fist-pounding uproar, held back from the arena by a thick web of metal, like chain link.

“And…Sylvie Wolfe is the victor!” the announcer shouts, as if he’s caught up in hysteria too. “We’re seeing history here, ladies and gentlemen!”

Movement catches my eye, and I look up to see myself on-screen all around the arena, stomping on Link’s neck with my full weight. Over and over again. Replayed from every possible angle.

This morning, I hated him. But now, as he lies here on the sand, dead, humiliated, I feel nothing but…numb.

A gate opens on the south side of the arena. I’m supposed to go through it, so they can come for Link’s body. So I can talk to the cameras. But as I walk across the sand, empty handed, stone-hearted, I look up at the crowd cheering for me, more moved by the violence of the moment than by the fact that I performed it, and I search out the faces I saw this morning. The men who held me down. The men with their pants unzipped, waiting their turn. The men who watched. Who were content to let it happen.

When I get to the gate, I turn to face the crowd one more time, and I throw my hands up, but not in victory. I flip them all a two-handed bird, giving the cameras several long seconds to focus on my statement.

Then I turn my back on them all and walk off the sand.

* * *

“That was glorious!” Kaya is beside herself when I step into the greenroom, escorted by half a dozen armed guards who, I could swear, are looking at me a little uneasily now. “It was such a neat death. Neat, as in clean. Tidy. Which I, personally, love.” She lays one hand over her heart as she escorts me toward the makeup chair. “But a couple of your sponsors have already asked if perhaps you could spill just a little more blood next time.”

I can only stare at her. “Where’s Graham? Take me back to the dugout.”

“You can’t go back. You’ll disrupt the fighters’ focus. And anyway, you’ve got another interview lined up. But he knows you’re fine, hon. He saw the fight. We got great shots of his reactions.”

I contemplate running for the door, but the guards would shoot me in a heartbeat. And for all I know, they might show Graham the footage. That would disrupt his focus.

So, I sit in the chair and let Margie redo my makeup. Kaya instructs her not to cover up my bruised chin or touch my split lip. And they won’t let me change, because despite Kaya’s complaint, there’s a nice splatter of blood—both mine and Link’s—across the front of my otherwise bright white outfit.

When Margie’s done with me, Renee brushes out my hair and somehow manages to make my curls look…tame. Then it’s off to the media room again.

This time, the reel playing on the screens in my cubical includes Link busting my lip and my fatal step on his neck. As well as footage of me flipping off the entire stadium, shown in slow motion, before I turn and stalk out of the arena.

It’s surreal to see the whole thing play out on screen. I wonder if my family watched. I wonder if my father had his friends over for beer and pizza, while my mother hid in the kitchen with a bottle of wine, waiting for him to tell her that I’m still alive, as he does during Sebastian’s fights.

I’ll probably never know.

I spend what feels like forever answering Charles’s questions on camera, but as the guards escort me back to the greenroom, where someone has set up a table and Kaya has fixed me a huge plate of food from the buffet, I can’t actually remember what any of my answers were.

All I can think about is how Link died beneath my foot. How Graham might be dying this very second.

“Eat up, hon.” Kaya sinks into the chair across from me, holding a bright pink drink in a martini glass. I don’t know where she got it. There’s no bar set up in here.

“Is that for me?” I ask as I stab a slice of barbecued sausage with my fork.

“Oh, um… No, I’m sorry. I can see if we have some iced tea, or maybe something carbonated, if you’d prefer. I understand they only have water in the bullpen, but…

“Please. Just a sip. It would really calm my nerves.”

Kaya looks around, to make sure there are no cameras aimed at me. Then she hesitates a second before setting the drink down between us.

Before she can change her mind, I snatch it and swallow the whole thing in two gulps. The pink concoction is somehow both sweet and tart, with a bit of a salty aftertaste. It’s also about eighty-percent vodka. Exactly what I need.

“Can we turn that on?” I point to the screen taking up half of one wall. “I don’t want to miss Graham’s fight.”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry. He took to the sand a few minutes ago, but it’s been decided that you shouldn’t watch, in case the outcome isn’t favorable. No one wants that possibility to negatively affect your state of mind, right before we send you back to the bullpen.”

I blink, waiting for her to realize she’s not making any sense. “You do understand that if he dies, the other inmates will tell me, in no uncertain terms. And that will definitely negatively affect my state of mind. Whether or not I see it happen.”

“I’m sorry, hon. That decision was made over my head.”

“Turn the screen on.” I stand, and the rest of the room goes quiet. People stare at me. “Turn on the damn screen,” I repeat, and the guards raise their pistols, almost as one.

“Sit,” one of them says. “Finish your meal calmly, or we will send you back to the bullpen right now.”

I focus on Kaya. “That would sure as hell have a negative effect on my state of mind. If I go back in there and I’m in no shape to defend myself, I will get hurt. And I won’t be able to fight next week. Maybe ever again. And there goes all your corporate sponsorship. So, I suggest you turn on the fucking screen.”

She thinks about that for a second. “Charles,” Kaya snaps, her usually bubbly smile gone in an instant. “Turn it on.”

He taps something on his ever-present handheld, and the screen on the wall lights up.

“Thank you.” I sit, my meal forgotten as, on screen, Jack Clarke rams Graham, driving him to the sand. Both men have black eyes and split lips. Clarke’s nose is bloody and so swollen he has to breathe through his mouth.

I’ve clearly missed most of the fight.

My heart races while I watch, wishing for another drink. Without all the pink shit to get in the way of the vodka.

Graham shields his face, but Clarke pounds on his ribs, over and over. I pray they’re not broken. He won’t be able to defend himself in the bullpen with broken bones.

Finally, Graham sees his chance. He grabs Clarke’s arm, hooks his leg around Clarke’s knee, and rolls them over with a fierce grunt of effort. Using a grip on Clarke’s shoulders for leverage, he pushes himself to his feet, breaking Clarke’s closed guard, and throws a punch straight down at his already broken nose.

Clarke takes him down again, but Graham shifts, and after a flurry of motion, he comes up with Clarke pinned in a brutal headlock. Clarke twists and strains, and if this were in class, he would tap out. Here, he doesn’t have that option. Graham squeezes, tightening his grip with huge biceps, helped with leverage from his free hand, until Clarke stops moving. He’s out cold.

Graham stands over him for just a second, and I wonder what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling, knowing that he now has to kill a defenseless man. I expect him to beat Clarke until a skull fracture and swollen brain tissue kill him. Instead, he pulls the unconscious man up, positions himself behind Clarke, and breaks his neck.

It’s a brutal move, only possible with extraordinary strength and extensive training, but it’s a mercy on them both.

The audience roars its approval, both in person, and here, in the greenroom. And, presumably, in homes and viewing halls all across the galaxy. But Graham is not celebrating. He stands and stalks straight toward the gate on the south side of the arena, as if he can’t wait to be free from the whole thing.

As if this is just a job, like any other, and his work is done for the day.

I slump in my chair as the cheers continue all around me. I hardly process Kaya’s joy as she springs from her seat and begins making calls on her personal screen, insisting to whoever she’s talking to that Graham is worth sponsorships on his own. That his sponsorship should include weapons, next time. That—

She’s still talking, but I’m not paying attention anymore.

Graham’s alive. That’s all I care about.

Someone turns off the screen. Someone else brings me a cold bottle of water. Everyone around me is buzzing with excitement and plans. Someone’s talking stats—my chances of winning my next bout, depending upon who I go up against. Kaya is talking to Charles about new outfits. Heavier armor. Something about a signature color. But I’m not processing anything, until hinges creak behind me.

I turn to find Graham standing in the doorway. I’m out of my chair in an instant, and in his arms a second later. He flinches when I collide with him, and I remember that he may have broken ribs. But he hugs me back anyway.

“You were magnificent,” he whispers into my hair. As if he didn’t just step off the sand. As if he isn’t splattered with a dead man’s blood.

As if he didn’t almost die.

I don’t realize I’m crying until he presses his nose against my ear. “Don’t overthink it. You did what you had to do. That’s all any of us can do.”

I pull just far enough away that I can see his face, trying to verify that he’s okay. And not just physically. Then I kiss him, an almost violent collision of lips and tongues, heedless of both of our wounds. Of the taste of blood and sweat. He’s here, and he’s alive, and we’re together.

“Graham, come over here,” Kaya calls, and I reluctantly let go of him as the guards fanned out behind him wave us farther into the greenroom. “The doctor wants to check you out.”

“Doctor?” Graham holds my hand as we walk, though they haven’t even cut the wrapping from his hands yet. “There’s medical care?”

“There is now,” Kaya says. “Live viewing numbers are already in. You two are a huge hit.”

The doctor runs a handheld scanner over Graham while I finish my meal, having just realized I’m about to lose the chance. “Two fractured ribs. One badly jammed knuckle. And likely a concussion.”

Shit. I try not to think about how bad life could be in the bullpen with fractured ribs.

“Hey. It’s okay.” Graham pulls me in for a careful hug. “At least it’s not my leg.” If he couldn’t walk, he’d be as good as dead.

“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor confirms. “Two days for the ribs. Twenty-four-hour observation for the concussion. Ice for the jammed knuckle. And it would be very fortunate if he’s not on the bracket next week.” That last part is directed pointedly at Kaya, as if she’s in charge of the lineup.

Maybe she knows whose ear to whisper into? Even if she doesn’t, inmates don’t usually fight two weeks in a row, simply because there are many more of them than there are scheduled fights.

“The guards will escort you to the infirmary,” Kaya says. “I’ll make sure we have some food sent over. This is really quite a spread.”

“I had a pink martini,” I tell him in a faux whisper, as we head toward the door.

“Oh, Sylvie, wait!” Kaya calls after us. “I’ll be returning you to the bullpen.”

Alone. Shit.

“No.” Graham takes my hand. “After what happened this morning, she has to stay with me.”

Kaya shakes her head. “I’m afraid that’s not—”

“Tell them she’s hurt and needs medical care. A concussion. A sprained fucking wrist. She can’t be in there alone for two days.”

“I’m sorry,” Kaya says. “Tier one fighters aren’t eligible for medical. That’s out of my hands.”

“Move it, Anderson,” one of the guards barks.

I lay one hand on Graham’s chest, before he can start fighting again. “It’s okay. I have Hardy and my knife,” I whisper. “I’ll be fine, even if I have to spend two days in our cell.” I hope like hell I sound more confident in that than I feel. “Go on. Get well. I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

Finally, Graham nods. “Tell Hardy if anything else happens to you, I’ll kill him myself.”

Instead of answering, I kiss him one more time. Then the guards escort him out the door and close it behind him.

“Okay, Sylvie, is there anything you’d like to take with you?” Kaya asks. “That’s customary after a victory, so long as whatever you pick isn’t against contraband rules in the bullpen.”

“Seriously?” Well, that explains how Roth got so much crap in his cell.

“Yes.” She heads toward the lockbox in the corner of the room and pulls my bag out. “The contraband you already had has been cleaned and hidden in the bottom of your pack,” she whispers as she hands it to me, but because I’m a skeptical bitch, I don’t believe her until I dig through the contents and find it myself. “Generally, we only allow victors to choose a single item to keep, but since women often have different needs than men, I won’t object if you’d like to stock up on a few toiletries before we go.”

Fighting back an actual squeal of joy, I pull her close for a kiss on the cheek. Which startles the guards and prompts them to pull their guns. Then I head into the bathroom, and as I look around, for just a second, I feel like the woman I used to be. As if I’m back at the local mall with Skye, wandering the aisles of our favorite specialty store for scented lotions and soaps.

It isn’t the scents I’m after, now. In fact, smelling good won’t help me avoid the men in the bullpen. But feeling clean—being clean—will help me feel more human. More like myself. And in a place like this, that could make all the difference for my mental fortitude.

The first thing I shove into my bag is the shampoo bottle on the edge of the tub. Next, the conditioner. Then the lotion. And the hair removal cream. Without a tub, the bubble bath is worthless, so I leave it, but the exfoliating body scrub is a must. As is the entire stack of clean washrags on the sink.

It’s a good thing my bag was nearly empty when I got here, because it weighs a ton by the time I step out of the bathroom, much to Kaya’s amusement.

“I guess I should change…” I say, glancing at my grimy prison uniform with regret. My one-piece gladiator gear is just as sweaty, but it’s much easier to move in, and I would dearly love to have it for my runs.

“Actually, I was thinking that you might just throw your uniform on over what you’re wearing now,” Kaya says too softly to be overheard. Not that anyone’s actually listening, though as usual, the guards are watching me closely. “It might be a pain to get off when you have to go to the bathroom, but since it can’t be torn, it will also be a pain to get off at any other time. And if no one else in the bullpen has the ability to cut it off…” She shrugs. “You’ll be awfully hard to strip.”

And suddenly Kaya Johnston is my second favorite person in the world.

That sentiment grows even stronger when, instead of giving me my stained, sweaty uniform, she hands me a brand new, fresh one, for me to take into the bathroom and “change” into.

“You do know this will be on camera, right?” I warn her, before I close the door. “People will see that I still have my new gladiator-wear.”

“Of course, hon. But what are they going to do, go in after it? Also, the manufacturer is one of your sponsors, and they’d be happy for their custom creation to continue to bring them acclaim. Oh!” She gives me a big smile. “I’ve also had one of the waiters put together a little doggy bag for you.”

* * *

Hardy is waiting in the pathway when the gate closes behind me. “Well done,” he says. “You’ve got the men in here talking.”

“Does that conversation sound anything like a wide-spread agreement not to gang up on me again?”

He doesn’t answer. I don’t push the issue.

“Where’s Graham?” Hardy asks, when I head down the path toward the yard.

“Medical care. Two days.”

He whistles as he jogs to catch up with me. “Moving up in the world, I see. All thanks to you.”

“Graham earned everything he’s getting. He was on his own in the ring.”

Hardy makes a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. “I assume he wants me to stick close,” he says, and I nod. “Sylvie, is that what you want?”

I stop walking and turn to study him. In the hours since I left the yard, his bruises have developed into nearly black patches of skin. He looks like a human punching bag, even though he never stepped into the arena. “I feel guilty asking you to do that. It’s my fault you got hurt today.”

He brushes my guilt off. “If it hadn’t happened in the yard, it would have happened on the sand. And I feel like I owe you, after this morning.”

“You really don’t. But yes, I’d appreciate the company.”

Everyone stares at us as we head through the yard into the bullpen, but no one approaches. Other than a couple of obscene catcalls from men volunteering to grapple with me, they pretty much leave us alone.

I’d like to think that’s due to respect I earned in the ring, but the truth is that it probably has as much to do with the guy I stabbed in the yard this morning as with anything else.

Hardy and I arrive in A block as the sun sinks below the horizon, and the lockdown tone sounds just minutes after we step into the cell I’ve shared with Graham since I got here. Hardy slams the door, and I exhale in relief. Until dawn, no one can get to me. Finally, I can relax.

And that’s when exhaustion hits me.

I’m so tired I have to force myself to get up and bathe. Hardy is gentlemanly enough to turn his back while I strip out of my new one-piece and lather up from forehead to toe with the new body scrub.

“Holy shit, that smells good,” he says as I wet one of my new rags beneath the flow of cold water, then use it to rinse soap from my skin. Sponge bathing is tedious, with the need to repeatedly rinse the rag, but I’m mostly blocked from view of the rest of the cells by the partial concrete wall, and it’s gotten so easy to block out the catcalls by now that I hardly even hear the commentary on my sweet new scent. “Are you washing in barbecue-scented soap?”

I laugh as I pull on my only clean pair of underwear, then step into my new, fresh uniform. “I think you’re smelling the doggie bag. Here. Help yourself.” I dig the paper-wrapped package from my pack and hand it to Hardy. “You can turn around. I’m done.”

“You sure you don’t want any of this?” he asks while I rinse out my new jumpsuit in the sink, hoping the bloodstains come out.

“I’m actually stuffed. Go ahead.” I drape the jumpsuit over the sink to dry overnight, then I toss one of my spare mattress pads onto the floor for Hardy to use. “Thanks for being here,” I say. “It’s really good to have a friend in the bullpen.” Then I curl up on the bed using a spare shirt for a pillow. Desperately wishing Graham were here to spoon me.

* * *

A hand slides up my arm, warm and calloused from the weight machines. “Mmm…” I press myself against the body curled around me and the erection nestled between my butt cheeks tells me he’s already good to go. “Graham.”

“Not quite,” an unexpected voice says into my ear, and I freeze as the hand slides down the dip of my waist, then over my hip. “He’s still in the infirmary. But he did tell me to take care of you…”

“Hardy.” My voice is cold. Hard. “Get the fuck off me.” I roll over and instantly regret it, because now I’m flat on my back, and he’s looking down at me.

“Come on, Sylvie. I took a beating for you today. I’ve been watching out for you all week without asking for a thing in return. The least you could do is offer me a little relief.”

Disappointment burns deep inside me, as if the knife in my back is much more than a metaphor. I just wanted a friend. Was one fucking platonic friend too damn much to ask for?

“Please don’t do this.” My voice sounds strange. Strained. My knife is in my hand, but I don’t want to have to use it. Not tonight. “I need you to be a good guy, Hardy. I really need to believe that Graham isn’t the only one.”

“He’s not. Which is why I’m not trying to force anything here. I’m just saying…I’ve had your back all week. Would a blowjob really kill you?”

I press the button on my knife, and the blade pops out. “If you’re still on this bed in three seconds, I will gut you.”

“I’m going.” He slides onto the floor, and in the dark, I hear him settle onto his mat across the cell. “I had to give it a shot. I hope you understand.”

No, I do not fucking understand.

“Please don’t tell Graham. He’ll kill me.”

“I won’t have to tell him. The next time they want to motivate him, our corporate sponsors will make sure he sees the security tape.”

I spend the rest of the night wide awake, with the knife clutched in my fist, silently mourning the death of a fledgling friendship.