Riot
Page 49
My eyes snapped open and I made myself stay still. The anger was thick and hot as I thought of that prick taking her in his bed. Thought of her cries as he was brutal and raw. Possession burned bright in my mind. No matter how much I tried to sleep, very little came.
But the embers of anger remained.
They intensified and increased until they were all I was. I welcomed tomorrow’s fight. A fight I would drag out as long as I could. Because the reward would be worth it. Just to have 152 in my bed once more.
Even if it meant forfeiting my free will.
Even if it meant giving Master everything I had left.
* * *
“They’re good,” 667 said as the scarred male walked away from the pit into the tunnel. We had been watching the long-haired Georgian and the scarred Russian. Both had slain their opponents within seconds of entering the ring. The Georgian had pierced his opponent in the eyes with his sais. The scarred Russian had sliced his picana through the skull of his. Neither had even broken a sweat.
A guard arrived and pointed at 667. 667 took his weapons in hand and turned to go and wait in the tunnel. The tournament fights were a quick turnaround. No sooner had one match ended than another had begun. I had watched last night and the matches so far today. The crowd loved it. Was bloodthirsty. But Master had sat stoically throughout. 152 remained at his feet, rarely looking up.
I could tell Master wanted more from the fights. His teeth had been grinding together as the Georgian and the Russian easily defeated their opponents. Master wanted the theater. In his pit, it wasn’t the death that he treasured; it was the fight to live.
The crowd roared as a male jogged out into the pit. He had a closely shaved head and pale skin. His number read 289. He was big and carried a hammer as a weapon, but from the minute the blond Russian champion, 818, ran out into the pit, you could see who was about to come out of this alive. The blond’s knuckle-dusters were ready in his hands.
He jogged forward, increasing his speed as he approached. The large male swung his hammer. But with perfect accuracy, the blond laid three punches on his opponent. 818 ran past him, leaving his opponent in shock but still on his feet. The male glanced down. I followed his gaze. The blond Russian stood still, not even looking back. Suddenly, his opponent dropped to his knees. I saw that he had two blade punctures in his stomach and one right over his heart. On cue, he keeled over and his heavy body thudded to the ground.
Turning on his heel, the blond ran out of the pit and straight into the tunnel.
140 sighed. When I looked to his face, he looked at me, too. Shaking his head, he said, “They will test us in skill.”
I agreed. Master could get exactly what he wanted from this tournament—a new champion. And me, dead.
The guard appeared and signaled for 140 to wait in the tunnel. He left, and I held my Kindjals tighter, knowing my turn was coming soon. The guard closed the door to the cell, and I watched the pit, waiting for 667 to come out. Movement from the back of the stands caught my attention. I narrowed my eyes, seeing 667’s mona in the arms of a guard. Just like 152 a few days ago, the guard had a knife to her throat. He was standing directly in front of the tunnel, directly in 667’s sight as he ran out.
I watched as the fighter ran to the pit, stumbling in his step when he circled the ring. He had seen her, seen his female in the guard’s arms. His face contorted in rage as he glared at Master. Master barely reacted, but for a small smirk pulling on his mouth.
I rocked on my feet in agitation. That fuck should not be able to get away with this. 152 looked up when 667 began grunting in anger, waiting for his opponent. She stared at the champion, then tracked his gaze to the back of the stands. I watched as her eyes widened and her mouth dropped in shock. Then, as I hoped she would, she looked to the cage that held me. I could see the plea in her eyes.
She wanted me to do as Master demanded. She wanted me to live.
The sound of feet running up the tunnel drew my attention. 667 held his daggers in hand and took the first blow of his opponent’s spiked club. With his shoulder beaded by tens and tens of holes from the spikes, I knew he was doing as Master commanded.
He was giving the people a show.
I moved closer to the bars as 667 turned on the fighter. But just as he did, the fighter swung his club at 667’s head. It happened almost in slow motion before my eyes. 667, instinctively defending himself from the blow, ducked and struck out his daggers. Both long blades slipped like butter through the chest of his opponent.
667’s face blanched as he turned to watch the male fall, headfirst to the sand. The once excited crowd now groaned in disappointment. 667 turned his body to the stands just in time to see Master flick his wrist to the guard holding 667’s mona. A loud, pained roar left 667’s mouth as the guard, with no time to lose, sliced his blade across 667’s mona’s throat. Blood immediately burst free from the blond female’s neck and her eyes widened in a mixture of fear and shock.
The guard threw her crumbling body to the ground, leaning down to wipe his blade on her quickly soiling dress. My attention fixed back on 667 just as he jerked forward, a war cry wailing from his mouth. With only one focus in his eyes, he leapt into the lower levels of the stands, slaying anyone in his path as he fought to reach Master’s seat.
The crowd began to rush from their seats when, from the tunnel, 140 came sprinting out, axes held high. He charged across the bloodied sand, jumping over the slain fighter’s corpse.
My heart thudded in excitement at seeing the spectators running for the exits, my brothers spilling blood as they raced toward Master. Needing to help them, wanting to join them in taking the fucker down, I began roaring out in frustration. I turned and slammed my shoulder against the cell door. It didn’t move, and guards ran past my metal prison. Running toward the pit. Turning to face the bars showcasing the pit, I hit them with my blades. “Get me out!” I demanded, and looked up. When I did, fear wrapped around me. 667 was staggering, still rows from where Master sat … where he held 152 before him like a shield. A gunshot sounded. I realized that 667 had already been shot and was fighting to stay alive.
140, however, was still charging toward Master, the guards’ bullets missing his every move.
“No!” I screamed, seeing Master holding 152 toward where 140 approached. I was wild as I charged against the bars, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. I wanted to take Master down. I wanted to punish him for using my female as a shield and for slaying 667’s mona.
But the embers of anger remained.
They intensified and increased until they were all I was. I welcomed tomorrow’s fight. A fight I would drag out as long as I could. Because the reward would be worth it. Just to have 152 in my bed once more.
Even if it meant forfeiting my free will.
Even if it meant giving Master everything I had left.
* * *
“They’re good,” 667 said as the scarred male walked away from the pit into the tunnel. We had been watching the long-haired Georgian and the scarred Russian. Both had slain their opponents within seconds of entering the ring. The Georgian had pierced his opponent in the eyes with his sais. The scarred Russian had sliced his picana through the skull of his. Neither had even broken a sweat.
A guard arrived and pointed at 667. 667 took his weapons in hand and turned to go and wait in the tunnel. The tournament fights were a quick turnaround. No sooner had one match ended than another had begun. I had watched last night and the matches so far today. The crowd loved it. Was bloodthirsty. But Master had sat stoically throughout. 152 remained at his feet, rarely looking up.
I could tell Master wanted more from the fights. His teeth had been grinding together as the Georgian and the Russian easily defeated their opponents. Master wanted the theater. In his pit, it wasn’t the death that he treasured; it was the fight to live.
The crowd roared as a male jogged out into the pit. He had a closely shaved head and pale skin. His number read 289. He was big and carried a hammer as a weapon, but from the minute the blond Russian champion, 818, ran out into the pit, you could see who was about to come out of this alive. The blond’s knuckle-dusters were ready in his hands.
He jogged forward, increasing his speed as he approached. The large male swung his hammer. But with perfect accuracy, the blond laid three punches on his opponent. 818 ran past him, leaving his opponent in shock but still on his feet. The male glanced down. I followed his gaze. The blond Russian stood still, not even looking back. Suddenly, his opponent dropped to his knees. I saw that he had two blade punctures in his stomach and one right over his heart. On cue, he keeled over and his heavy body thudded to the ground.
Turning on his heel, the blond ran out of the pit and straight into the tunnel.
140 sighed. When I looked to his face, he looked at me, too. Shaking his head, he said, “They will test us in skill.”
I agreed. Master could get exactly what he wanted from this tournament—a new champion. And me, dead.
The guard appeared and signaled for 140 to wait in the tunnel. He left, and I held my Kindjals tighter, knowing my turn was coming soon. The guard closed the door to the cell, and I watched the pit, waiting for 667 to come out. Movement from the back of the stands caught my attention. I narrowed my eyes, seeing 667’s mona in the arms of a guard. Just like 152 a few days ago, the guard had a knife to her throat. He was standing directly in front of the tunnel, directly in 667’s sight as he ran out.
I watched as the fighter ran to the pit, stumbling in his step when he circled the ring. He had seen her, seen his female in the guard’s arms. His face contorted in rage as he glared at Master. Master barely reacted, but for a small smirk pulling on his mouth.
I rocked on my feet in agitation. That fuck should not be able to get away with this. 152 looked up when 667 began grunting in anger, waiting for his opponent. She stared at the champion, then tracked his gaze to the back of the stands. I watched as her eyes widened and her mouth dropped in shock. Then, as I hoped she would, she looked to the cage that held me. I could see the plea in her eyes.
She wanted me to do as Master demanded. She wanted me to live.
The sound of feet running up the tunnel drew my attention. 667 held his daggers in hand and took the first blow of his opponent’s spiked club. With his shoulder beaded by tens and tens of holes from the spikes, I knew he was doing as Master commanded.
He was giving the people a show.
I moved closer to the bars as 667 turned on the fighter. But just as he did, the fighter swung his club at 667’s head. It happened almost in slow motion before my eyes. 667, instinctively defending himself from the blow, ducked and struck out his daggers. Both long blades slipped like butter through the chest of his opponent.
667’s face blanched as he turned to watch the male fall, headfirst to the sand. The once excited crowd now groaned in disappointment. 667 turned his body to the stands just in time to see Master flick his wrist to the guard holding 667’s mona. A loud, pained roar left 667’s mouth as the guard, with no time to lose, sliced his blade across 667’s mona’s throat. Blood immediately burst free from the blond female’s neck and her eyes widened in a mixture of fear and shock.
The guard threw her crumbling body to the ground, leaning down to wipe his blade on her quickly soiling dress. My attention fixed back on 667 just as he jerked forward, a war cry wailing from his mouth. With only one focus in his eyes, he leapt into the lower levels of the stands, slaying anyone in his path as he fought to reach Master’s seat.
The crowd began to rush from their seats when, from the tunnel, 140 came sprinting out, axes held high. He charged across the bloodied sand, jumping over the slain fighter’s corpse.
My heart thudded in excitement at seeing the spectators running for the exits, my brothers spilling blood as they raced toward Master. Needing to help them, wanting to join them in taking the fucker down, I began roaring out in frustration. I turned and slammed my shoulder against the cell door. It didn’t move, and guards ran past my metal prison. Running toward the pit. Turning to face the bars showcasing the pit, I hit them with my blades. “Get me out!” I demanded, and looked up. When I did, fear wrapped around me. 667 was staggering, still rows from where Master sat … where he held 152 before him like a shield. A gunshot sounded. I realized that 667 had already been shot and was fighting to stay alive.
140, however, was still charging toward Master, the guards’ bullets missing his every move.
“No!” I screamed, seeing Master holding 152 toward where 140 approached. I was wild as I charged against the bars, sparks flying as metal clashed against metal. I wanted to take Master down. I wanted to punish him for using my female as a shield and for slaying 667’s mona.
