I first met Kaya several months ago, when she invited me to Rhodon. Universal Authority wanted me to do live commentary on the fights, in my capacity as a professional gladiator. In exchange, they offered me an on-air reunion with my sister, who’d just been sentenced to death by combat in zone one.

Universal Authority got much more than their money’s worth out of me. That day, Sylvie’s opponent got the better of her in the arena, and when one of her sponsors bailed her out with a lifeline, he tried to rape her right there on the sand. On camera.

I beat the bastard to death. When I was arrested, I confessed and demanded death by combat, so I could look out for Sylvie in the bullpen.

Kaya had already been assigned as Sylvie and Graham’s sponsorship liaison, but she took me on as well. At the time, I thought that was to capitalize on behind-the-scenes footage of us the three in the greenroom. But now…I’m pretty sure she was trying to keep Sylvie and me together as much as possible.

I think she was truly trying to help us.

Either way, I spent a lot of time with Kaya last season, and virtually every minute of that has been filled by her chatter. Planning costumes, commenting on the fights, scheming to snare a new sponsor, directing the hair and makeup crew, and telling me which CEOs to be especially nice to at the afterparty on the blimp. Her voice has become one of the constants of life on Rhodon, for me.

Until now.

We’ve been hiking across the open plains in zone three for hours, and she hasn’t said a word. Not to complain. Not to ask for a break. Not to demand her release, or beg me to take her to the crash site.

She just walks.

Eventually, her steps grow slower and her shoulders begin to slump. She needs to rest. And I need to think.

We need to get out of sight for a while.

So far, we’ve only seen a few men headed toward the crash, from a distance, but they were all coming from the east and their trajectories haven’t yet led them to us. But that can’t last.

By the time I see a single building on the horizon, Kaya is walking half-slumped over, her shoulders curved in toward her chest, her gaze firmly on the ground in front of her. I think she’s scouting out each step before she makes it, trying to protect her vulnerable feet from twigs, burrs, and…debris.

She’s right. My doubled over socks are not a long-term solution.

“Kaya, look.”

Her head rises. Her gaze tracks my pointed finger. I expect her to look relieved, but she just looks…resigned.

She hasn’t stopped talking because she’s mad at me, or because she’s exhausted, or because she’s scared. She’s topped talking because she has nothing to say to me. Because she believes I think of her as an asset, like the supplies I stole from the blimp. As something to be used, to get what I want. And the truth is that she’s not wrong.

But she’s not entirely right, either.

I need Kaya because she’s valuable to the UA, and to her stockholder fiancé, who will no doubt do anything to get her back. But that’s not all she means to me.

“Come on. Let’s rest.” I start toward the building, but then I stop when her hand lands lightly on my arm.

“Sebastian, it might be occupied.”

Shit. She’s right. I’m prepared to fight for some safe place for us to rest, but Kaya… Well, she couldn’t be less like Sylvie. Less capable of protecting herself. There isn’t a single callus on her hands, and though she’s clearly spent some time on exercise equipment—a necessity for a life lived in orbit—I doubt she’s ever thrown a single punch.

I should teach her how. But not until she’s rested.

“Okay, you wait here, and I’ll go check.”

Panic flashes in her eyes, and she looks truly awake for the first time in hours, as she scans the field around us. Looking for threats. “I…okay,” she agrees, despite the fear swimming in her eyes. “Just…if there’s anyone in there don’t run them off in this direction, okay?”

Shit. I can’t leave her alone. Not even long enough to check the building. I can’t afford to lose her.

I can’t live with myself if I lose her.

“Change of plans. You’re coming with me. Move as quietly as you can, and when we get inside, if anyone’s there, I want you to back into a corner and make as small a target as possible while I deal with the threat.” I reach into a side pocket of my pack and dig out the multi-tool I stole from the supply room on the blimp, then I unfold the small knife blade from the thick handle and give it to her. “Just in case.”

“Won’t you need this?”

“I’m gonna go with something a little bigger.” From another pocket, I retrieve a four-inch serrated kitchen knife. Neither blade is ideal for self-defense, but it’s not like the blimp was well-stocked with machetes.

“Okay. Stay close.” I lead her forward, and her steps are silent, thanks to the borrowed socks, but the building is farther away than it looked. By the time we get there, the sun is high in the sky, and I’m sweating through my shirt. Kaya must be sweltering and miserable in her double layer of tops, but she hasn’t said a word about the conditions.

I make eye contact with her as we approach the front door, and she nods in silent acknowledgement of my instructions. Then I steel myself and pull the lightweight metal alloy door open.

The two men inside look up from their meal in surprise. Then they jump to their feet, when they notice my knife. They’re prepared to defend themselves and their food if necessary, but they’re not yet openly aggressive.

“I know you?” The blond man frowns at me, taking in my skin-tight athletic pants, which are not standard issue. He’s a couple of inches shorter than I am, and at least fifty pounds lighter. His friend has a similar build.

“No.” If we were in the bullpen, I’d assume men their size have martial arts experience—speed and agility, rather than brute strength—but they don’t look very limber or fleet-footed. I’d bet everything in my supply pack that they’re just a couple of average Joes unlucky enough to be imprisoned in the zone where UA releases all the gladiator champions. “Sorry guys, but I’m gonna need this space.”

They tense, their hands curling into fists, yet they seem aware that I can take whatever I want from them. They’re probably used to being pushed around.

“I don’t want your stuff,” I assure them. “I just want the space. So pack up and move on, and this doesn’t have to come to blows.”

For a moment, they seem willing to simply forfeit the space, but the second they notice Kaya peeking out from around my arm, that changes.

“Maybe we can work something out.” The second man draws himself up to his full height and puffs out his chest. “The space for the woman.”

“Get. Out,” I growl.

“Half an hour with her. That’s all we’ll need,” the blond tries. “We’ll share her to save time, and we’ll leave her in real good shape for you.”

Kaya clutches the back of my shirt in terror.

“You can watch, if you’re into that,” the dark-haired man adds, and her grip pulls my shirt tight across my shoulders.

The blond frowns when he notices her skirt. “What’s she wearing? I never saw a prisoner in a skirt.” The obvious conclusion rolls over his features. “Fuck, she’s from the crash, isn’t she? We were on our way. What kind of ship was it? There’s too much smoke for a shuttle, and why the hell would someone like her be on a shuttle?” The blond leans to the side, trying to get a better look at Kaya.

“Is there anything left?” his friend asks, still eyeing my knife warily. “Any more women?”

“Why don’t you go try your luck?” I suggest. “There’s nothing here for you.”

“I know where I’ve seen you!” the blond suddenly shouts, his brows arched high. Then he turns to his friend. “Holy shit, man, that’s Havoc! The gladiator!” He turns back to me. “I used to watch you on the fights. What the hell are you doing on Devil’s Eye?”

Looking for my sister. Trying to escape. Protecting Kaya.

Using Kaya.

“Same as you. I’d hate to have to hurt a fan, but if you don’t leave, now, that’s what’s going to happen.”

“Not without the woman.” The dark-haired man has grown some balls.

“There are probably more at the crash site,” the blond insists, already edging toward the door as I pull Kaya inside and away from the exit, to give the men room to leave. “Let’s just go get one of our own. Maybe one each.”

But his friend is too smart for that. “If there were civilians on that ship, UA will be crawling all over it. We’ll never get close. Give us half an hour with the woman, and this place is all yours.”

Or maybe he’s very, very stupid.

I motion toward the corner, and Kaya edges along the wall toward it.

“Get her,” the second man orders the blond as he bends his knees and squares off against me.

The blond glances at Kaya, and I can see his indecision. He wants her—hell, who wouldn’t?—but he also wants to live. “Do yourself a favor and leave peacefully,” I warn him. “If you wait a minute, you can loot your friend’s body on the way out.”

I lunge toward the dark-haired man and he warns me about the punch he’s about to throw with a grunt and a clumsy shift of his balance. He’s not a fighter. He’s just determined to give this his best shot, because when will he ever see another woman like Kaya on the surface of Devil’s Eye?

I punch him square in the nose, then, as blood spurts all over the floor, I back away, giving him a chance to retreat gracefully. Instead, he wipes blood on his sleeve and charges me.

I bury my knife in his left shoulder. The man howls and jerks back, dislodging the blade and widening the wound.

“Go,” I offer one more time. “This is your last chance to leave alive.”

Clamping one hand over his bleeding laceration, the dark-haired man looks at Kaya, likely noting her white-knuckled grip on the multi-tool. She looks terrified, but determined. “If I see you again, I’ll kill you,” he growls at me as he marches toward the door, still clutching his shoulder.

“I will tremble in fear of that moment,” I assure him, and Kaya stifles a laugh.

He curses me in an unfiltered stream of expletives on his way out the door, with his blond friend.

I search the rest of the small building, to make sure we’re alone, then I watch from the doorway until the men disappear over the horizon. When I finally turn, I find Kaya sitting in the corner with her legs tucked beneath her. On the grimy, debris-strewn floor.

Seeing her there in her stained skirt and borrowed shirt, sitting in filth, clutching a weapon, kindles an indignant blaze deep inside me, akin to my fury the first time I saw footage of my sister in the bullpen. Kaya doesn’t belong here. She shouldn’t be cowering in some grungy corner.

I can’t take her to the crash site, but she deserves clean clothes, at least. Some place decent to sit. Real food.

Shoes.

“They’re gone.” I pull the door closed—unlike the sliding interior doors, it opens outward—and take another look around the room. The building appears to have been stripped of furniture long ago, but when I swept the building, I found a single grimy mattress in one of the empty back rooms. “I’ll be right back.”

Kaya grips the knife tighter and turns toward the door, clearly on alert, but she doesn’t object when I head down the hall.

I drag the mattress into the front room and set it in the middle of the floor, wishing I had something to cover it with. But before I can apologize for the amenities, Kaya stands and crosses the room, then plops down on the mattress, heedless of the filth. She sighs, as if she’s just settled into the finest, softest chair credits can buy, and I start to laugh. Then I notice the trail of wet footprints she’s left behind.

Mud? The dirt on Rhodon is rust-colored, and that could account for the reddish color, but…

“Kaya, let me see your feet.” I sink onto the mattress next to her, cringing when something beneath me crunches.

“I’m fine. But I could use a drink, if you think we can spare a little more water.”

“Of course.” I dig the bottle we’ve already opened from my pack and hand it to her. Then I lift her calves and use her legs like a lever to turn her until her feet are in my lap.

“Seriously, Sebastian, it’s fine. My feet just need a break.”

But her socks are damp, and when I touch one, my hand comes away smeared with blood. “Shit, why didn’t you say something?” I demand as I carefully peel back the double layer of cotton.

She flinches as the material pulls away from the sole of her foot, but then she clenches her jaw and gives me a stony look. Determined not to complain. Or admit weakness.

“Holy fuck,” I breathe as I lift her foot and hold it toward the window, which is the only source of light in the room. The bottoms of the socks I lent her are practically crusted with cockleburs, which have penetrated the fabric and shredded the soles of her foot.

“Damn it, Kaya, why would you do this to yourself?”

Anger flashes behind her eyes. “I didn’t do this to myself. You took me hostage without shoes.”

“You could have said something. I would have carried you!”

“You can’t carry me all over zone three, Sebastian. At some point, I’m going to have to walk, and this felt like just as good a time as any.”

“How are you not in tears right now?” I mumble as I carefully peel back the second sock to see that her other foot looks just as bad.

Kaya shrugs. “It hurts like hell, but I’m pretty sure that spending the past seven years in four-inch heels has killed off most of the pain receptors in my foot.” She gives her toes an experimental wiggle, then she flinches. “Nope. I was wrong.”

“Seven years? Is that how long you’ve worked for UA?”

“No, I’ve only been here for five. But before that, I was an event coordinator, and I wore heels there too.”

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” I set her bare heels on the mattress, then I stand and lift her in both arms, her feet dangling below my right elbow.

“You have a first aid kit?” she asks as I carry her to the bathroom, hoping the sink drain still works.

“I wish.” I set her on the counter—a broad metal expanse with a built-in basin—and hold one of her feet over the sink. “Give me the water.” I reach for the bottle, but she clutches it to her chest.

“No! We can’t afford to get dehydrated out here, Sebastian. Until we find more, we need to save the water for drinking.”

“We also can’t afford for your feet to get infected.” I take the bottle. “Flex your foot for me.”

Kaya stretches her toes toward her stomach, tilting her foot forward so that when I pour a thin stream of water from the bottle, it rolls down from the ball of her foot toward her ankle, carrying a thin stream of blood and grime with it. Leaving a streak of pink skin, dotted by dozens of puffy puncture marks.

I pour a little more water and gently rub her foot with my thumb, dislodging as much grime as I can, and though it must hurt, Kaya bears the touch without complaint.

When her first foot is as clean as I can get it without soap and running water, I wash the second one. Then I hand the nearly empty water bottle back to Kaya and carry her back to the front room, where I have no choice but to set her down on the filthy mattress again.

I hate myself for putting her through this.

“Okay, I need you to stay off your feet for a while. And take this.” I dig the bottle of one-dose antibiotics from my bag.

“You’re bossy,” she says as I hand her a pill, but finally I see a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“I have a lot of experience with injuries. You have to keep them clean and give them a chance to heal.” I sit next to her and drop the pill bottle back into my bag.

She rolls her eyes. “It might surprise you to know that bit of wisdom is not exclusive to gladiators. And it’s not like I got hurt fighting for food. Or even for profit.”

“Germs don’t care what kind of injury you have. They just want broken skin.”

“Okay, but it’s not like we can stay here long enough for my feet to heal.”

“Actually, maybe we can. Maybe we should. I assume there will be lots of patrol shuttles in the area, this soon after the crash. It might actually benefit us to stay here for a little while. And this will help.” I dig in my bag again and pull out another bottle of pills and a tube of expensive nano-knit cream. “Pain killers,” I explain. “From that bottle you let me take out of the green room last season.”

“That wasn’t me,” Kaya says. “It was the doctor.”

After my fourth fight, I’d refused to go to the infirmary and leave Sylvie alone in the bullpen—Graham was hurt—so the doc gave me medication to take with me.

“The pain’s not that bad,” Kaya says with a glance at the pill bottle. “You should save those. You’ll need them, if you don’t get off the planet. And maybe even if you do.”

“You sure?” The least I owe her is a painkiller. But Kaya nods, so I drop the bottle back into my bag. “Okay, but we’re using the cream.” I set her feet in my lap again and open the tube, then I squirt some of the expensive ointment into my palm. “This should speed up the healing process, courtesy of whichever of my sponsors wanted me to survive that gash to the head.”

As I begin gently applying the ointment to the swollen, tender soles of her feet, Kaya’s gaze finds the pale, thin scar, just below my hairline on the left side of my forehead. “I remember that fight. Salvatore’s sponsorship liaison got him a hatchet, and you narrowly avoided a split skull. I felt so guilty about that.”

“Why would you feel guilty?”

“Because it’s my job to keep you alive. To get you what you need to survive, both in the arena and immediately afterward. But your sponsors wanted to see what you could do unarmed against an armed opponent. Because we’d never had a pro on the sand before. And because that’s the only way they could bill you as the underdog.”

“You got me medical care,” I point out as I cap the tube. “And in this case, that’s the gift that keeps on giving.” I drop the cream back into my bag and set her heels on the mattress. “Now we’re all set for a while.”

“Unless we run out of food and water.”

“We won’t.” I rummage through my bag again and pull out a packet of surplus military rations—standard issue prison food, dispensed in the zone one cafeteria and dropped from a cargo shuttle in all the other zones. “Tonight’s selection includes pasta with tomato sauce and meatballs, served in a plastic pouch, with a short-handled spork. Or, if you’d rather have a taste of home…” I reach into my bag again and pull out a small round tin and a box of crackers. “Gourmet rice crackers and caviar. Again, served with a short-handled spork.”

“A taste of home?” Kaya laughs. “Is that what you think I eat on a daily basis?”

I shrug. “I assume they let their star sponsorship liaison order whatever she wants.”

“Well, they do. But I actually hate caviar.”

“Oh.” I shrug and hand her the food pouch. “More for me.”

Kaya rips into the envelope and pours an assortment of food pouches onto the mattress. She grabs the biggest—the pasta—and tears it open. Then she opens the plastic-wrapped spork and digs in. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry.” She eats several bites, then she puts her spork down and looks at me. “What if they come back? Those men.”

“They won’t.” I break the seal on the caviar and remove the lid from the tin.

“But what if they do?”

I meet her gaze as I tear open the box of crackers. “Kaya, if they come near you, I will kill them.”