Two hours later, the door to my suite opens. Mina walks in with a knowing, dark smile.

“The King is ready for you again,” she says. And there’s a dangerous glint in her eyes that tells me something big is about to happen.

She crosses to my closet, throwing it open. She comes out carrying a long garment bag. “He requests that you change into this.” She hands it over and heads for the door. “I shall wait for you outside.”

Slowly, I zip the bag open, my eyes growing wide as I take in the new outfit.

Ten minutes later, because it’s not the easiest thing to change into, I walk out of the suite in my newest dress.

It’s made of soft black leather. A deep plunging neckline exposes more cleavage than I’m used to. Straps and buckles crisscross over my hips, across my back. It stretches long to the floor.

I look like the goddess of war.

With an approving smile, Mina leads us to the elevator. Instead of rising up again, we go down. Plummeting in this speedy elevator, we dive through the belly of the MetroCosmo.

When the doors slide open, it’s to a nearly pitch-black hallway. Only faint blue lights line the floor, dimly guiding us forward.

There are roped lines leading up to doors, suggesting wherever we are headed is used frequently for events.

This is Vegas. And each casino has a showroom.

Perhaps this is where Sands of Set will be regularly performing.

Mina opens a door and I step inside.

It’s an arena. A huge stage is set below me, circled entirely by seats. The entire space is illuminated by gold and red lights. The thrones from upstairs have been moved down here, placed just on the edge of the stage.

There’s no one else here.

Carefully, so as to not trip, I descend the stairs.

Just as I step onto the stage, doors open from off to the right, and in files the House of Valdez.

They wear…costumes. Each of them is dressed like someone from an ancient time. Leather skirts with straps that look meant to hold weapons. They look like…gladiators.

From the shadows, a figure walks up to the stage. The lights glint off of a crown, and Cyrus steps into view.

“I do not enjoy the city of Las Vegas,” he says. His voice is low. Dangerous. He looks out at the House of Valdez, his eyes dark. He goes to stand in front of his throne. “It stinks of sin and deceit. It never grows dark. It never knows quiet. It races too fast, trying to be too modern.”

The room is deathly quiet, waiting to hear what their King has in store for them.

“It makes me long for a simpler time,” Cyrus says. The faintest tick of a smile pulls on the corner of his mouth. “A time when offenses were settled with iron and blood. A time of brutal entertainment. Oh, how I miss those days.”

He snaps his fingers and four men enter through the doors to the right. They’re burly, built. They carry large wooden crates. Without hesitating, they march up to the stage and set the crates down.

In them is an arsenal of weaponry. Shining iron. Spiked ore.

“It has been some time since I have enjoyed an old-fashioned gladiator fight,” Cyrus says. He extends a hand toward me, inviting me to his side. I go, but my heart rate spikes. “And while we shall not fight to the death, we shall fight to the last man standing. And the victor shall enjoy a dance with this enchanting young woman at the ball tomorrow.”

My eyes widen but I keep as quick control as I can.

I am the prize?

One dance. To the victor of the last vampire standing?

As I look around, I see that each of them doesn’t see this as much of a prize, either. But I also know, they don’t have a choice in this.

This is King Cyrus’ entertainment. This is his punishment for what happened earlier.

“As House leader, I shall let you pick the opponents,” Cyrus says. “This will be a single elimination event, until our final two contestants. And everyone,” he turns his eyes to Hector, Rafael, and Edmond, “must participate.”

I hear the faint muttering of protest from some of the House members, but Edmond raises a hand, and they immediately fall silent.

“Pick your first two opponents,” Cyrus says darkly. He turns and crosses to his seat.

Slowly, I follow him, sinking into the seat beside him.

“Are you all right?” I quietly breathe without looking over at him.

Instead of answering, Cyrus extends his hand, scooping up mine. Without looking at me, he raises it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles.

Another silent thank you. An admission that no, he is not all right.

The crowd clears from the stage, leaving only two people behind. A man, tall and skinny, and a woman, tall and built. They each wield a sword.

A cold sweat breaks out across my skin. My stomach feels as if it dissolves inside of me.

This is real.

Those are sharp blades. This is an arena.

And there will be blood spilt.

“Fight!” Cyrus bellows.

Both of the contestants rush forward, swinging their blades.

The woman immediately connects with the man’s arm. I watch as if in slow motion, as it slices cleanly through his flesh. There isn’t even time for the blood to spill before the blade hits bone, and as if made of steel, the blade bounces back.

The man gives a roar of pain, clasping his hand to his arm as blood gushes from the wound. Feebly, he darts to the other side of the arena, no more than a blur, but the woman is instantly there in front of him, dealing another crushing blow. He staggers back, his eyes igniting bright red.

The woman raises a foot and kicks it hard into his chest.

He sails across the arena, skidding on his back. A wheezing sound comes across his lips, his head knocking backward, hard against the floor.

The woman raises her hands in the air, declaring herself the victor.

The last man standing.

I understand the rule now. The first to fall to the ground is eliminated.

I look over to Cyrus to see him leaning forward, a wicked gleam in his eye.

I told them they would deserve whatever punishment he gave them, for causing him so much grief and pain earlier. Was that a mistake? Was I wrong? Because I certainly didn’t understand the levels of brutality the man beside me would result to.

The next opponents step onto the bloodied stage. Two men, both huge in stature. Both with glowing red eyes.

“Fight!” Cyrus declares.

They rush forward, swords swinging.

Blood splatters onto the stage as they each take blow after blow. It’s incredible to watch, really. They move with such speed at times I can hardly even tell where they are. And they both take strikes that would lob human limbs from bodies, over and over.

Bloodied and weak, one of the men slips to his knee. And it’s a fatal mistake. He looks up at his opponent, just in time for him to swing a punch into his face.

The man sails back, landing flat on his back.

A cheer from the crowd sounds from a woman and another man.

I’m trying to understand the Houses. It seems they at least live in close proximity. I know from what Cyrus has said that at least some of them marry one another. They even have children sometimes. I would think they would be like family.

But these people, they swing swords at one another, and the look in their eyes, I swear, they really would kill one another to win. Even though there is no real prize.

“Do they not like each other?” I ask as the next set of opponents step up. “It certainly doesn’t look like it. If they’d just as soon kill each other, why do they all live with each other?”

Cyrus smiles as he watches the blood spray across the stage. “Each House has its own politics and inner workings. Some Houses band together for financial reasons. Like the House of Sidra.” The women on the stage pummel one another. “Others evolve out of manipulation, like your mother’s.”

I internally recoil at that.

“And others simply like to be associated with power,” Cyrus continues. “Like the House of Valdez. This is business and competition.”

A woman collapses to the ground after an exceptionally hard blow. She’s out.

“None of them are family, then?” I ask, disgust settling into my stomach. “None of them really care about each other?”

Cyrus’ eyes flick over to mine and he takes me in. “Just because there is money, manipulation, competition, doesn’t mean they aren’t family. What family is perfect?”

The next competition is over in one perfect blow that sends the man flat on his face.

Family. This is nothing what my family looks like. Nothing like what I envisioned my future family to look like.

By the time the first round ends, there isn’t a single inch of the stage that isn’t covered in blood. The losers sit on one side of the arena, bandaging wounds, hissing and groaning and casting dark looks at their King.

For hours, the fights continue.

A fist meets a face, the hit so fierce that a spray of blood splashes me across the face. Flecks of it spatter across Cyrus’ neck.

I was wrong before.

They don’t deserve this.

Cyrus is enjoying it far too much.

But he is the King of vampires, and I am just a little, human girl.

I can feel it, as the sunsets and the hour grows late. I’m tired, exhausted. But finally, the final two contestants step onto the stage. Edmond, and a man with long blond hair and a wicked scar down his face. Bloody. Battered. Exhausted.

They ready themselves. And even though they’re exhausted, I see the preparation in their eyes.

“To the last man standing,” Cyrus hisses.

Edmond takes the first swing, though the other man quickly deflects it, spinning with impossible speed, taking a swing at Edmond’s side, and landing.

The thud of metal on bone cracks through the arena.

Edmond twists, ducking low, kicking a leg out. The other man stumbles but with lightning speed, briefly puts some distance between the two of them.

On. And on. And on, they battle.

They are both covered in blood from head to foot. It drips down into their eyes, coats their teeth. They slip on the stage.

They are equally matched. And this could go on all night.

My fingers curl around the armrests. My jaw clenches. My blood boils too hot.

“That is enough, Cyrus,” I say. Not loudly. But with finality. “You’ve punished them enough. You have taken this too far. End this. Now.”

Every eye turns to me. Edmond and his opponent pause, though neither lowers their weapon.

They all keep looking at me like that. With shock. And maybe a little bit of reverence.

I look over at Cyrus, and slowly he looks back at me.

“I can’t take another second of it,” I say, looking at him with stone cold eyes. “The fact that you are enjoying this so much makes me sick.”

Dead. Silence.

Not a one of them breathes. No one moves a muscle.

I feel their eyes shift from me, to Cyrus, and back to me.

Cyrus stands but never once takes his eyes from me. He reaches out, taking my hand and pulls me to my feet.

Fear. I should be feeling fear. Being touched by the man who brought about so much violence without anyone questioning him.

But all I feel is determination.

“You are all dismissed,” Cyrus says, though hardly loudly enough for the giant space.

But one by one, they breathe in relief. They slowly trickle out that door.

Cyrus never once looks away from me though, never is distracted.

I raise my chin, determined not to cower under his penetrating stare. The House of Valdez might bow under his commands, but I am not one of them.

As the room empties, Cyrus looks at my hand. He turns it over, as if studying every inch of my skin.

“It has been a very, very long time since I have met anyone like you, Logan,” he breathes. His thumb brushes over the center of my wrist. “Someone who does not recoil when in my presence. Someone who dares speak their mind.”

He raises my hand, and brings his nose to trail along the inside of my wrist, slowly up the inside of my arm toward my elbow. His eyes slide closed as he slowly inhales.

There’s something wrong with my heart. It flutters. It stops. It sprints.

My stomach is full of fluttering beasts.

“I told you that I would give you four weeks to finish your human life,” he says, brushing his cheek along my skin. “I told you I am a man of my word.” Every one of his words sounds pained, full of absolute longing. “But Logan, please, I beg of you. Please do not make me wait.”

His voice actually cracks just slightly on his last sentence.

The agony in his words… A fracture splits in my chest and my breath catches.

“Why do you want me to die?” I ask. I raise my other hand and palm the side of his face. He presses it into my hand, still not opening his eyes. “Cyrus, what do you want from me?”

A pained breath rips from his chest and he turns to press his lips into my palm, cupping his hands around mine so that it does not escape.

Violent tingles spark in my lower stomach. I’m hardly breathing.

I can’t look away from Cyrus’ lips pressed against my palm. And I realize, I don’t want him to pull them away.

“I am so tired of waiting,” he whispers. He trails his lips, not kissing, just brushing them lightly against my skin, down to my wrist. “I’ve been so ready…” He continues dragging his lips along my arm. As he slides them up my bicep, it parts his lips and my body sparks in desire. I let my eyes slide closed just a little bit.

One of his hands wraps around my waist, pulling me closer. And slowly, slowly, those captivating lips of his slide across my shoulder, and rest against my neck.

“Please, Logan,” he begs.

And instantly I come back to my senses as I feel the tiniest prick of pain against my flesh.

Fangs.

At my neck.

Ready to end me.

“No,” I whisper, suddenly trembling.

I’m so confused. So conflicted. It’s agony, it takes everything I have in me to take half a step back. Cyrus’ eyes are foggy when they rise to meet mine. Filled with desire and lust and something I swear is love. But it can’t be love because…because it’s just impossible.

I shake my head. “There’s still so much I have to finish. Still too much I have to learn. Still far too much I don’t know about my future.”

Slowly, the pain returns to Cyrus’ face, and I think I die a little inside at the sight of it.

“Not yet,” I say quietly.

But the pain turns to sadness and resolve. He nods as his shoulders sag in defeat. He turns to go.

“Did I win?” I ask quietly.

“Win?” he says, pausing.

“The game,” I say. “You said I could see Eli if I won.”

There’s a little look of betrayal in his eyes that shatters my complicated heart.

“Yes,” he says, sounding tired as the ocean. “You won. You may visit Rath, just for a few minutes.”

Without another word and without any more begging, he turns, and walks out of the arena.