“Out,” Graham orders as we step into the showers. There are only three men in here, and they’re all loners who lack both the experience and the backup to take us on. They’re also rookies, and other than Graham and me, they’re among very few people left in the bullpen.

Most of the inmates went to watch the fight. Live in the arena.

The rookies shuffle past us, nude, clutching bars of soap and soggy pairs of shorts on their way into the main area of the large bathroom to get dressed.

One of them doesn’t even bother to rinse his hair.

“Okay.” Graham takes my backpack and sets it against the wall next to his, where they won’t get wet. “It’s not a hot bath with bubbles, but surely this is better than another sponge bath in our cell.

“Anything is better than another sponge bath in our cell.”

After Graham and I killed Roth and his goons, the rest of the week went so smoothly that I was almost disappointed, this morning, to see neither of our names on the bracket. Not because I want to fight. After killing Link, I don’t care if I never have to step on the sand again.

But I really want another bubble bath.

This is the next best thing.

I dig my shampoo and body scrub from my bag, then, still in my prison uniform, I step under a shower head halfway into the room. I’m hoping to keep water off of our stuff, yet be close enough to defend it, should anyone come in and try to rob us while we’re naked and vulnerable.

Eventually, someone will be big and stupid enough to decide he can take us. Or another alliance will form. So we remain on guard.

I set my bottles down, then tilt my head back to let water run over my face. It’s ice-cold, despite the heat of the day, but after my run, it feels kind of amazing on my overheated skin.

Graham laughs as he lifts the hem of my soggy shirt. “Showering is traditionally done in the nude, you know.”

“I’m doing laundry. Two birds, one stone.”

“Not gonna lie; this is a disappointing development.”

I laugh. “Spoiler alert: I’ll get naked in a minute.”

This is the most privacy we’ve ever had in the bullpen, both from the inmates and from the security cameras—we’ve recently discovered there aren’t any in the showers. That doesn’t make it any easier for me to think about the men we’ve killed, even if they were killers. Even if they were rapists.

Even if they deserved everything they got.

But if being scary is the only way Graham and I are going to be able to survive in here—if killing a few this week means we don’t have to kill even more next week, or waste every day fending off attacks—then I guess it was worth it.

Either way, it was necessary.

Though I’m not sure people actually believe I killed Cohen Roth. They still don’t look as scared of me as they do of Graham. That may have something to do with the fact that he’s a head taller than I am and outweighs me by half.

Graham watches me wash my hair while he lathers up, and I have to admit, I have the better end of this deal. He’s entirely naked. And…slick. But once my prison uniform is soaked and clinging to me, he doesn’t seem to mind the inequity.

“Miss Wolfe, your laundry appears to be getting in the way of your shower.” He grabs my hips and pulls me close, beneath the cold water. “Maybe you need some help?”

“Maybe I do,” I admit as his lips trail down my neck.

Graham lifts the hem of my soaked shirt, and I laugh while he pulls it over my head. The collar snags on my ears, still covering my eyes, but rather than pull it free, he gathers my shirt and my hair over my head and presses me against the shower wall. Essentially blindfolded.

I groan when he lifts my breast, teasing my nipple into a hard point. He kisses me, leaving me breathless, then his mouth begins to wander, and since I can’t see him, I can’t tell where he’ll land next.

Every touch is a sensual mystery. Every kiss an erotic revelation.

I gasp when his mouth closes over my nipple, a hot counterpoint to the frigid flow of water, and suddenly the moisture between my legs has nothing to do with the shower.

Despite the chilly downpour, I suddenly feel…flushed.

Graham slips his hands beneath the waistband of my shorts and pushes them down, with my underwear still inside. They land in a cold, soggy pile on top of my feet, and I step out of them, then kick them away.

“Don’t move,” he whispers. Then his hands disappear, and for a second, I’m alone behind my blindfold, beneath the brisk assault of the shower. Then I hear the click of a plastic spout and smell my apricot-scented body scrub.

His hands land on my shoulders, slick with the scented soap, and he runs them slowly up my neck, then back down and over my arms. Next, he spreads the soap across my stomach, then over my ribs in slow symmetrical strokes, and when his fingers brush the lower curves of my breasts, I hold my breath, anticipating a bolder touch. Aching for it. But he only moves lower, working the soap over my hips, then around to my lower back. And while he may be cleaning my body, my thoughts grow dirtier and dirtier with every slippery stroke.

He moves in closer to reach my upper back, pressing his chest against mine, and finally I can feel his erection against my stomach, hot and hard. I groan and grasp for it, but he steps out of reach, deep, masculine laughter rumbling up from his throat.

“Not yet,” he whispers. Then, finally, his slick, warm palms find my nipples, rubbing in light circles as the peaks pebble beneath his touch. Stimulated by tiny, rough exfoliant beads in the soap. Aching for more, I arch forward, pressing my breasts into his hands, but he only pulls back to maintain the light contact. The erotic torture.

“Graham…” I moan.

“Yes, Sylvie?” His breath brushes my ear. He’s so close, yet his lips don’t touch me.

“I need more.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need you inside me.”

Holding my head against the shower wall with his grip on my shirt-wrapped hair, Graham nudges my legs apart with his knee. His cock twitches against my stomach again, and his free hand finally closes around my breast. Kneading. Working my nipple between his slick thumb and forefinger.

Then he steps back and runs his hand down my abdomen, slowly moving lower and lower. His fingers slide into my folds, drawing a couple of lazy circles around my clit while I practically pant, desperate for more. Then they sink deep inside me. “Like this?”

“Noooo…” I groan. “I mean yes, but—”

His thumb finds my clit, and I bite off my objection as a spike of pleasure shoots through me, echoed in the light pinch of my nipple between his teeth. I gasp, and Graham swallows the sound in a kiss that starts off sweet, then evolves into a conquest of my mouth by his tongue, echoing the rhythm of his fingers plunging in and out of me.

That blistering pressure builds rapidly inside me until I’m groaning into his mouth, clutching his arms while I writhe against his hand. Lost in the throes of my orgasm. More satisfied than I’ve ever been in my fucking life, despite the prison, and the violence, and the ever-present live audience.

Because what’s the point of living a long life of safety, security, and comfort, if you’re never, ever going to feel like this? If no one’s ever going to touch you like you’re the most precious thing in the universe?

“Oh my god,” I murmur as Graham pulls the shirt off my head. My gaze meets his hazel eyes, dilated with his own need, and he pulls my left leg up, wrapping it around his hip. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Too bad I had to earn a death sentence to find you.”

“We’re not dead yet, Wolfe.” He lifts me by my butt, and I wrap my other leg around him while he slowly lowers me onto his cock. His eyes fall closed for a second and his hips buck beneath me, pressing me against the wall. “And we’re going to live every single fucking second we have left.”

Then he’s thrusting into me, hard and fast, and I can do nothing but ride it out, my back sliding against the wet wall, still slick with soap. Frictions builds hard and fast between us, with me still swollen and sensitive from my orgasm, and I’m close again much too quickly. My legs clench around him. A moan rumbles up from my throat.

“Not yet, baby…” Graham growls into my ear. “Wait for me.” But in chasing his own release, he only increases the delicious friction between us, and my breath hitches as I try to stretch out that brutal peak just before I fall over the edge. To hold it off. To live in the exquisite buildup…

“Now!” he grunts, slamming into me so brutally that the wall bruises my spine. I feel him release into me, and I come so hard the edges of my vision start to darken. I clench around him over and over, riding out each wave as it crashes over me, biting my lip to keep from screaming and drawing an audience from what few inmates are left in the bullpen.

“Holy shit, you’re incredible,” Graham whispers into my ear while I shudder around his cock with a forceful aftershock. “I wish we had forever, so I could stay buried inside you. Just like this.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and smile as I let him in on something I’ve understood since the day he fought to rescue me from Cohen’s cell. “Forever wouldn’t be long enough.”

* * *

We make it out of the shower in time to catch the last fight on the screen in the yard, where the stragglers who opted not to watch from the arena are gathered. On our way across the cracked pavement toward our favorite table, I hear Graham’s voice, amplified, and I turn to find us both staring out from the huge screen on the side of the building. We’re standing over three corpses.

On screen, Graham grabs my hand and holds it up. “This is your new champion!” he shouts.

Here in the yard, all stragglers turn to look at us.

And finally, I realize what’s happening. We’ve just missed footage of Hardy’s betrayal and of me killing Roth. Which the UA producers showed as a lead-in to the explanation of the new bracket.

With no reigning champion, the top bracket is essentially in the same position it was in at the beginning of the season—but there are only eight fights left. UA’s algorithm has ranked the top tier fighters and designed a new bracket. Tonight’s final fight will be the first from that bracket.

As the feed changes to show the arena, I do some math and come to a startling conclusion. With only eight weeks left in the season, it is mathematically impossible for me to make it to the top tier this season, unless they fight me every single week. Which, I suspect, my sponsors will never let them do. They’ll want to keep me fighting next season, for the ratings.

However, Graham will be on the new bracket. Which means that in two months’ time, he’ll either be released into the general population as the new champion, or he’ll be dead.

Either way, we now have an answer to the question we’ve been trying not to voice.

Eight weeks.

That’s the best-case scenario for how long we have left together.

* * *

Despite the knowledge that I’ll almost certainly be slated on the tier two bracket next week, I find it nearly impossible to concentrate on training in the days following my realization. I’m not sure which of us I’m more worried about. Without Cohen Roth in the running, Graham’s chances of surviving the tournament are much better than they were before—yet nowhere near certain.

And whether he wins or loses, I’ll be in here alone during the hiatus and all next season. Or, as far as I make it into next season, anyway.

That shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. I didn’t even know Graham existed when I demanded my right to fight. I came here assuming I’d be on my own. But now that I’ve had him…

I don’t think I can be here without him. And that has nothing to do with the fact that I’m safer with him at my side. As crazy as it sounds, considering that we only met two weeks ago, I can’t imagine life without him. Not just here in the bullpen, but anywhere...

Graham can see that something’s wrong, but he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t have to. I’m sure he’s done the same math I have.

* * *

My third fight day, after a bye round last week, begins much like my first did: in pre-dawn darkness, heavy with dread. Graham and I make our way to the yard with everyone else in total silence. If he weren’t holding my hand, I wouldn’t be entirely sure he was even still with me.

His gaze looks as distant as mine feels.

It’s not just the fight that worries me. We’ll definitely both be called up today—I no longer believe the executives are hands-off in the bracket building department—but just like the first time, Graham will be called first. I’ll be alone, without even Hardy to come to my aid.

If anyone’s planning to attack me, today represents the best chance for success.

After the first tier names are announced, the tier two bracket appears on the screen, and sure enough, I’m listed in the last bout against a man named Tony Yost.

I know Yost by sight, but I don’t know much else about him, except that this’ll be his third fight. If he beats me, he’ll advance to tier three.

“He’s not a grappler,” Graham whispers, as they post the tier three bracket. “So just like with Lincoln, take him to the ground as soon as you can. But watch out. He has martial arts training, and he loves to kick. High.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I really am listening. But I’m also staring at the screen, waiting. Finally, the top tier bracket appears. Graham has been pitted against Wallace Monfort.

I know Wallace. He’s big, and he’s fast. He runs almost as often as I do. And I’ve seen him grapple. He doesn’t have many weaknesses.

“Hey.” Graham takes my hand under the table, and I try to ignore the gazes focused on us. “It’s okay. I’ve studied him. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he’s studied you too.” Since we killed Roth, Graham has become the man to beat, both on the sand and in the bullpen.

“Listen, I want you to come with me when they call my name,” he whispers. “Even if they won’t let you in the arena yet, waiting at the gate, is much safer than waiting out here in the yard. They won’t be able to surround you, and if anyone comes in after you, they’d have to be stupid to try something with the guards right on the other side of the gate. And if Kaya finds out you’re there, she’ll probably try to pull you in for an early interview or something.”

“Okay.” We stand and grab our bags, watching the screen, but Graham’s plan turns out to be unnecessary. They call me at the same time they call him and Wallace, even though my opponent’s name does not appear on the screen.

Wallace walks ahead of us without speaking, as if he can’t even hear us behind him. If we were back on my homeworld, I’d assume he was listening to music; my brother always had something playing while he trained, or when he was trying to focus.

When the gate opens, six of the eighteen guards escort Wallace to the right, while the remaining twelve lead Graham and me to the same greenroom we used last time. I open the door, wondering what they’re serving to eat today, but the moment I step over the threshold, I forget about food entirely.

It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing.

“Sebastian!” I race across the room and throw myself at my brother, tears already forming in my eyes. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? What’s going on?”

“Hey, Sylvie.” He hugs me so tight I can hardly breathe. “Are you okay? I’ve seen some of the footage, and—”

“Yeah. I’m good.” I shrug out of his hug so I can see his face. “Don’t watch, Seb. Seriously. Don’t watch. Not the fights or anything from the bullpen.” But I can tell from the flash of fury across his features that he’s already seen…something. “Don’t let Dad watch either.” My mom won’t. She can’t even watch Sebastian’s fights. “What are you doing here?”

“It was Kaya’s idea.”

“And it was brilliant, if I do say so myself.” Kaya beams at me from across the room, where she’s evidently been consulting with Renee about my hair. “I thought it would be good—both for the ratings and for your state of mind—if you got to see your brother before the fight. And your sponsors got into a bidding war over who would pay to bring him out here.”

“I’ve been on a high-speed transport for a week and a half,” Sebastian says.

“Yes, but he traveled in style,” Kaya assures me. As if I might be offended if my brother’s accommodations had only been business class. “We’ve got interviews lined up for him, and we’re going to film him watching the fights, hoping for commentary from a genuine expert in the field.” Her gaze rakes over my brother, and I realize my sponsorship liaison has a crush.

A big one.

“And, of course, we’ll get some footage of the two of you together,” she continues. “Your reunion. And maybe reminiscing about training.”

“Sylvie?” Graham calls, and I turn to see him waiting for an introduction. Because my brother obviously doesn’t remember him.

“Hey. Sorry. Graham, this is my brother Sebastian. Sebastian, Graham is—”

“Sylvie, can I speak to you a moment?” my brother interrupts, eyeing Graham with an expression I can’t quite interpret. “Privately?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Well, no actually you can’t,” Kaya says. “We brought him here on the condition that all of your interactions would be on the record. For the feeds.”

“Fine,” Sebastian growls. Then he turns to me as if none of the rest of this exists. As if it were just the two of us, training in the backyard, like it used to be. “On the feeds, they make the two of you look like some kind of fairytale shit. Like a prison romance.” He’s switched into our local dialect, assuming that no one else here will understand. At least until they can bring in an interpreter to slap some captions on the footage before they air it. “Is that shit for real, or is he taking advantage? Demanding payment for protection?”

“I don’t think you can truthfully describe anything in the bullpen as a fairytale,” I hedge, uncomfortable discussing my sex life with my brother. Even if he’s only trying to protect me. “But Graham’s not demanding anything.” And that’s as much as I’m willing to tell him about my private life. Even if it’s all been captured on camera.

“Are you sure? Because I’ll kill the fucker right here and now,” Sebastian growls with a glance over my shoulder at Graham.

Graham laughs. “Sylvie doesn’t need my protection,” he says. In our dialect. “No more than I need hers, anyway. In case you haven’t seen the feeds, she took down the champion.”

Sebastian’s eyes widen, betraying his surprise for just an instant. Then he smiles. “I knew I fucking recognized you. Galactic Gloves Youth Championship. Heavyweight division. Must have been… What, ten standard solar units ago?”

“Eight,” I correct. And suddenly I understand. Graham and I are from the same homeworld, which is how he faced my brother in the ring all those years ago. Of course he speaks our dialect.

“Wait, you two fought each other?” Kaya glances from Graham to Sebastian, and I can practically see her plotting a new coverage angle.

“Hell of a coincidence,” Sebastian says.

“Not really.” Kaya beams at all of us, as if this were a normal family reunion, and she were a part of it. Which feels a bit incestuous, considering her obvious crush on my brother. “Sebastian’s here because Sylvie’s here.” She turns to Graham and me. “And the chances of two death row convicts with fighting experience both winding up in zone one are actually pretty good. It’s the fact that Sylvie and Graham both committed murder that I find interesting.” She shrugs. “But then, maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe the fact that you could kill someone—because of your training—made you more likely to solve problems with the very violence that got you sent here.”

When she realizes we’re all staring at her, Kaya laughs. Then she glances from Sebastian to Graham, and back. “Who won? When you two fought as kids?”

“I did.” They say it in unison.

I burst into laughter, and a second later, both men join me. Kaya motions like mad to the cameraman, to make sure he’s getting all of this.

“But seriously, man, no matter what you saw on the feeds, I would never hurt your sister.” Graham slides one arm around me. “I’m a little scared of her left hook.”

Sebastian grins. “You damn well better be. We worked on that for years. That, and those damn anatomy classes.”

Kaya pulls my brother closer to the camera, her hand wrapped around his bicep, for some impromptu commentary. “You took anatomy too?”

“Yeah,” he says with a glance over his shoulder at me. “You can’t expect to hit the spleen—or nick an artery—if you don’t know where they are.”

“Holy shit,” I whisper when they’re out of earshot. “I can’t believe he’s here.”

Graham snorts. “I can’t believe that skinny kid I beat in the ring nearly a decade ago grew up to be Havoc.”

“Yeah, well don’t be too impressed. You have a much higher kill count.” But then, so do I.

“I’m not sure that’s anything to brag about,” Graham says as we step up to the buffet.

We eat a light breakfast—nothing heavy until after the fight—then I take a scented bubble bath, alone this time, so Charles can interview Graham and Sebastian about their pre-Rhodon connection.

By the time I’ve been primped and prepped and have given my interviews, I’m as desperate to talk to my brother as I am to see Graham. Sebastian has been here for hours, but the fights are about to start, and if I don’t make it off the sand…

To my surprise, however, both men are waiting for me in the dugout, completely oblivious to the fact that the other fighters are glaring daggers at them both, for interrupting everyone’s concentration.

I know I should be focusing. Visualizing the fight. Going over Yost’s strengths and weaknesses and making plans to exploit them. But if I don’t survive this fight, I’ll never see either Graham or my brother again, and there are things I need to tell them.

Sebastian first, because the guards are already trying to get him to follow them somewhere else, for his live commentary. “Hey.” I stand on my toes and wrap my arms around him, treasuring the feel and the smell of home. I’ve never realized before how little my homesickness has to do with my homeworld, or my childhood house, or all my things, and how much it has to do with the people. With my family. Skye is gone, and my parents aren’t here, so Sebastian is all I have left of my old life.

“I need you to tell Mom and Dad something for me.” I’m whispering, but I’m sure the cameras can hear every word. “Tell them I’m sorry about what they’re seeing on the feeds. I know that can’t be easy. But I had to do it, and I’d do it again. For Skye.”

“No,” Sebastian growls into my ear, holding me so tight I can hardly breathe.

“What?” I push him away.

“I’m not going to say goodbye for you, sis. Because you’re not going to die. Not today. Tell me whatever you want to say after your fight.”

“But what if I—”

“You won’t. You’ll be fine.” He puts both hands on my shoulders, mimicking the pep talks I used to give him before a fight, when we were kids. “Your body knows what to do, so just let it do its thing. Don’t overthink things. Press your advantages without giving up any. And I’ll see you in the greenroom. Okay?”

“Okay.” I give him one more hug. Then I have no choice but to watch my brother walk out of the room without giving me a goodbye.

I feel like someone just sucked all the air from the room.

“Sylvie.” Graham wraps his arms around me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Your brother loves you. And you’re lucky to have seen him again. Most of these guys—even the coldest, hardest bastards in here—would give anything for that chance. But Sebastian’s right. No more goodbyes.”

I twist in his embrace until I can wrap my arms around his neck. “I don’t want to say goodbye. But it seems arrogant not to. To just assume I’ll see you again.”

“You’re thinking like a girl again,” he whispers into my ear, running his hands down my back, over my slick new silver and red gladiator-wear. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a man’s world. So put your game face on, Wolfe, and go take what life owes you. I’ll see you in the greenroom when this is over.”