Well, he’s honest. Brutally so. And his voice has this deep, oddly melodic quality that, if I were anywhere else in the world, would make me want to turn off the lights, snuggle close, and hand him a long list of dirty things to whisper into my ear.

But there has never been a less appropriate time or place for dirty talk. Though there are at least a hundred less appropriate candidates, most of whom are just waiting for the doors to unlock, so they can fight to the death for the chance to claim me.

I was prepared for this place to suck, but I have to admit, the mob outside Graham’s cell was terrifying in a visceral, hyper-real way that no amount of mental coaching—of psychological inoculation against fear—could truly have prepared me for. That crowd brought to mind the warden’s warnings about a free-for-all, and I totally lost my shit, because staring through the bars at those men, I realized that my willingness to barter my body for protection might not do me much good.

Why would any of those bastards pay for what he could just take? And even if one of them were willing to offer me protection, no one man could take on an entire mob.

Maybe the guards were right. Maybe I’m going to need more than one…friend.

If Graham is as trustworthy as he claims to be—as he seems to be so far—it looks like I really lucked out, at least for tonight.

He’s not bad to look at, either.

He’s big. I mean, they’re all big, but Graham is big and hard. Sculpted. His shoulders are broad and rounded with muscle. His neck is thick. His biceps strain the material of his sleeves, as do his thighs, in the legs of his pants.

It’s like he lifts weights in his sleep. Like somebody smooshed two bodybuilders together to form one mega-bodybuilder. Or maybe that’s the hysteria setting in.

I’ve had one hell of a day.

But my point is that as far as saviors go, mine is hot.

Stop it, Sylvie. Get your head in the game. It’s my brother’s voice again, and he’s right. Graham is in here for a reason, and the fact that he remembers me from some random encounter when we were teenagers doesn’t change that. I have no reason to trust him.

“So, now what?” I pull my bag into my lap and start digging through it, because I need something to do with my hands. And something to look at, other than Graham.

“Now…we try to figure out how to get you out of here safely at sunrise.”

My hands go still in my bag. “Not that I’m ungrateful—because I’m not—but why do you care? I’m nothing but trouble for you, if you’re not going to…use me. So what’s in this for you?”

He gives me an odd, almost sad look. “Why are you so cynical?”

I gesture one-handed at the prison all around us. “I’m waiting to be torn apart the minute the sun comes up by as many men as can fit into the hall. How can I not be cynical?”

“Fair point. I don’t want anything but the company of someone not trying to drive a knife into my back. Assuming you qualify.”

“I do. But I also feel compelled to point out that if they put us in the arena together, I’ll have no other choice.”

His smile is condescending, but somehow not cruel. “If they put us in the ring together, the men out there will have as much to fear from you as you have to fear from them.” When I only frown, he elaborates. “I’m a top tier fighter. You’d have to defeat at least six men in the ring, live on camera, to even reach my category. Which would mean you’re one scary…”

Bitch. He’s going to say bitch.

“…opponent.”

I shrug. “Well, that is the plan. So, how long did it take you to get to the top tier?”

“I’ve been here about ten weeks, if my count is accurate.” Which is why I never saw him on the feeds. He didn’t get here until after I was arrested, and there was no way to watch the fights in jail. “And I hit the top tier two weeks ago. About two months in.”

That seems pretty quick to me. With around a hundred men in the bullpen, there’s no need or opportunity for most of them to fight every week. Yet they fought him often enough in eight weeks for him to have six victories.

That’s an insane pace. How could his body possibly recover that quickly?

“So, have you fought Cohen Roth?” I ask.

Graham looks amused. “If I’d fought the champion, I’d either be the champion, or I’d be dead.”

“Can you beat him?” I ask.

He nods slowly. “Under the right circumstances, I think I can.” Graham’s gaze narrows on me, like he’s reassessing. “You’ve seen Roth fight?”

“Everyone’s seen Roth fight.”

“And what do you think?” He’s still assessing me, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for.

“I think he’s dangerous.”

Graham nods. “Understatement of the century. Roth has thirty-four straight kills on camera. And at least that many behind the scenes.” Yet he doesn’t sound impressed. Or scared. “A couple of months ago, the warden benched him for two weeks because he killed three rookies within a few days of their arrival.”

“Why would Shaw care about three death row inmates, when there are a hundred others in here?”

“There weren’t that many of us, then. And to keep the fights entertaining and profitable, Universal Authority will only let them pair the new guys against each other. And there are never enough of those.”

“So, Roth stopped killing people behind the scenes?”

“Sort of. Now he just breaks bones in the bullpen. Which keeps the ranks flush but leaves men who piss him off unable to defend themselves in the arena.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can avoid catching his attention.”

Graham lifts one brow at me.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Sylvie, you won’t live long enough to avoid his attention or even step onto the sand if you’re still in this cell when the sun rises.” His clenched jaw tells me he’s actually picturing the mob that will descend upon us in the morning. As am I. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t hold back two dozen men.” And he’ll probably get killed if he tries. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t riot.”

We. He’s speaking about us as a unit. As if he’s in this with me. That seems like something I should ask him about. Like something I should clarify. But the possibility that I might have lucked into an ally within minutes of stepping into the bullpen also feels a bit like a bubble that might burst if I poke it.

Wait… “Maybe we want a riot.” I lower my voice and scoot closer, so he can hear me. “Maybe if they riot, I can sneak out of the crowd while they’re pummeling each other. Maybe they’ll all get hurt and decide I’m not worth the effort.”

Graham smiles quietly, as if he wants to indulge my fantasy, but he knows better. “Even if the two dozen who were here earlier all kill each other, there are at least eighty more out there. Someone will see you sneak away and seize the opportunity.”

“Yeah, but I can fight one. The mob is the problem.”

Graham looks at me like I just said the most ridiculous, naive thing ever. “Sylvie, if you get hurt fighting in the bullpen, you’re screwed the second you step into the arena.”

He’s right of course.

“We have to get you out of here before the mob forms again. Which is going to be tough, because anyone who didn’t get a cell for the night will be here before sunrise, hoping to beat the crowd.”

I close my eyes and let my head fall against the concrete wall. Suddenly the whole thing feels so hopeless. So stupidly, viciously hopeless. Though, of course, that was actually true long before Graham started pointing out the facts. Before the warden tried to get me to change my mind. Before the transport ever even left my homeworld.

“And then what?” My voice hardly carries any sound, yet I can hear the despair thick in it. “Even if I make it out of here unmolested, where am I supposed to go? I’m assuming there’s nowhere for me to hide.” His bleak look confirms that. “And even if there were, hiding is counterproductive. I need to be able to train, if I’m going to have any hope of surviving in the arena. I need some way to keep the men off me. Maybe if I tell them I have something communicable…”

Graham laughs. Then he takes my hand and flips it over to show me my own palm, and the number tattooed there. “You’re clean. If you weren’t, your number would have a circle around it. And these guys wouldn’t care even if you weren’t clean. They’re all here to die. What’s a little itching and burning in the mean time?”

“Ew. This place is disgusting.”

He nods sagely. “You have no idea.”

But I’m starting to.

“So—” Heavy footsteps head our way, and my mouth snaps closed. Graham waves me back from the bars and points to his bed, where I’ll be out of the direct line of sight from the door. I scramble onto it and press myself into the corner.

“Graham.”

I recognize the champion’s voice, from the Universal Authority feed, and my eyes fall closed.

“I hear you have a new toy.”

Graham moves into the center of the cell. “Roth.” He doesn’t address the “toy” comment, just like he didn’t address the earlier demands for him to fuck me in front of our audience, and finally I understand why.

Making a big deal out of the fact that he’s a decent guy would be painting a target on his back, just like having a vagina has painted one on mine.

“So, where is she?” Roth demands.

I stand before Graham can decide how to answer. It’s not like Roth’s not going to see me eventually. I step into sight, my arms crossed beneath my breasts, and the champion gives me a once-over, while I study him right back.

He’s fucking huge. That was obvious on the screen, back home, but it didn’t really feel real until just now. Easily six and a half feet tall. Probably three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He’s the kind of freakishly large man you’d cross the street to avoid in broad daylight, in a good neighborhood. Bulging. Veiny. Neck as big around as my waist.

And somehow, despite all that bulk, I know from having seen him fight that he’s also fast. Yet he’s gaping at me.

“Holy fuck, I didn’t believe she was real until just now.” Roth adjusts a huge bulge in his pants, and my gaze leaps up to his face. “What do you want for her?”

“Fuck you,” I snap, and that may not have been the best approach to take. But Roth only laughs.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart,” he says, and I can feel his gaze roam over me again, as if he can actually see through my clothes. “Anderson. I can get you anything you want. Name your price.”

“She doesn’t belong to me,” Graham says at last, his jaw tight, his posture deceptively tense beneath a relaxed stance.

“Perfect. You keep her warm for me, and I’ll be back for her first thing in the morning.”

“No.” I speak clearly, in case all the blood abandoning his head for his dick is impairing brain function.

Roth grips the bars with both hands. “Let me give you some advice, sweetheart.” He pins me with a look as hard as the musculature straining at the material of his shirt. “Learn to recognize a good deal when it’s offered.”

“Are you offering me something? Because so far, the only proposal you’ve made was to Graham.”

His brows rise, and he steps back, evidently reconsidering his initial assessment of me. “We’re going to put that mouth to better use than smarting off. Here’s your offer: I can protect you. Nobody here fucks with me, which means I’m the only one who can keep you safe in the bullpen. I can make sure you stay fed and showered. And I can guarantee that the men you face on the sand are not in prime condition—at least up to a point.”

“You’re offering to, what? Hurt my opponents before they take the sand, so I can win?” Interesting…

“Up to a point,” he repeats. “The longer I keep you alive, the longer we both benefit from this little arrangement.”

I’m not sure whether I should be more insulted that he doesn’t think I can win on my own, or that when I graduate into the upper tiers, he won’t be willing to risk injuring himself to help me, even if he’s still getting laid.

That kind of implies that I’m not worth dying for, and I have to respectfully disagree.

Not that I want that kind of help from him. Letting Roth fight my battles won’t win me any respect in here, and if they don’t respect me in my own right, the other inmates will just be waiting to strike when he’s not looking.

“And all you have to be in exchange is cooperative,” Roth continues, and his magnanimous expression really rubs me the wrong way. “It’s a good deal. But if you don’t take it, I’ll still get whatever I want from you, and I will make your life here a living hell. So, it’s your choice.” He shrugs and backs into the center of the wide aisle. “Play nice or play rough. I like it both ways.”

“Oooh.” I inhale through my teeth, making a hissing sound. “I was all-in until you decided to be a dick about it.”

Roth glances past me at Graham. “Not very smart, is she?”

Fuck off. The words are right there, ready to be spit at him again. But this time I can’t say them, because no matter how much I already hate Cohen Roth, the reality is that I need him.

There’s nothing I wouldn’t do. That’s what I told Graham, and I meant it. And surely one man is better than a hundred men.

“You’ll keep everyone else off me while I train?”

Roth grins. He knows he has me. “I’ll make sure you don’t need to train. No one else will touch you.”

Until I get slated for a fight he’s either not willing or not able to fix, and that’s when he’ll wash his hands of me, because I’m just a temporary plaything. Easy come, easy go.

That’s when I’ll die. Because I haven’t been able to train.

“Dawn,” Roth says, eyeing Graham. Then he blows a kiss at me, readjusts his pants, and disappears down the aisle.

“Fuck,” I breathe as I sink onto the ground, leaning against the back wall. “Fuck!”

Graham is silent, and when I look up, I see him clutching the bars in a white-knuckled grip, the tension carrying through his arms, all the way up to his shoulders. Even the cords in his neck are standing out.

“You really hate him.”

“I do now,” he says, and I can tell from the closed-off sound of the words that he’s speaking through clenched teeth.

What the hell am I going to do? I swallow the words before they can fall from my tongue, because I don’t want him to think I’m actually asking. That I expect him to solve another problem for me.

As nice—as respectful—as Graham’s been, he doesn’t have Roth’s authority in the bullpen. He may be able to fight off a few of the men at a time, but he doesn’t have the clout to keep them from attacking in the first place.

Not that he’s offered.

“Oh my god, I have to go with him. I have to take the deal.”

“What?” Graham turns on me, his forehead furrowed.

“Roth is my only way out of here without getting torn apart by the crowd. Unless he’s bluffing. Can he really keep them off me?”

Graham sinks onto the end of the narrow bed, which is really just a rectangular concrete block topped with a thin vinyl-covered pad, about as thick as a kindergartner’s nap mat. “Yes. For a while, anyway. I mean, he wouldn’t be able to take them all on at once. No one would. But men who’re expected to kill one another aren’t known for how well they work together, so the chances of them presenting a united front against the champion are slim.”

“Then that’s my only choice.” Maybe I should be scared. Or relieved. But I can’t really feel anything right now. I’m just…numb. “I mean, I didn’t expect it to be all butterfly kisses and puppy hugs in here, but…”

Graham doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even smile. For several long moments, we’re silent, each locked in the prison of our own thoughts. Then he sucks in a breath so sharply I look up to see what’s wrong.

There’s no one outside the cage. Nothing has changed. Yet he’s looking at me with a fresh new sorrow shining in his brown eyes. “Sylvie, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Why not? There are no secrets between cellmates, right?” I try on a smile, but it feels like a plastic mask.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

I frown, not sure why he would ask that, if he’s not planning to…

Oh. “Is there something I should know about Cohen Roth?”

“Have you read his rap sheet? Did they show that on the feeds?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, but if they did, I wasn’t paying attention. All I know is that everyone here is a convicted murderer.” Myself included.

“Cohen Roth raped and murdered four college students on his homeworld.” He clears his throat, then meets my gaze with painstaking honesty in his own. “The chances that he’s a gentle lover are not good.”

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and force myself to let it out slowly. Fighting my body’s threat to hyperventilate. “He’s probably not alone in that. This is death row, not knitting club.” Though suddenly I’m curious about how Graham wound up here. Not that I’m going to ask. “But to answer your question, no, I’m not a virgin.”

He looks so relieved that for a moment I want to smile. As if I’ve actually delivered good news. But virgin or not, I have no desire to find out what Cohen Roth is into, in bed.