Riot (Scarred Souls 4)

My eyes next found 152, who was watching me, tears filling her eyes. My stomach turned on seeing her look so upset. She appeared in distress. Her hand lifted toward her forehead, but she quickly dropped it back to her side. Her skin was still pale. She broke her gaze from mine and looked to the scarred male. She shook her head, then turned away.

Master picked up 152’s hand to link her arm back through his own. She went with him, and it took all I had not to run after her and ask her why she stared at the new male so much.

A guard appeared at my back and pushed me with the nose of his gun. I reached down and picked up my Kindjals. I headed for the tunnel, followed by 667 and 140. 140 pulled me around by my arm. “Don’t do anything to fuck up your chances in the pits. You make it to the final, you get to take those fuckers down.”

I wrenched my arm back, then pounded to my cell. I sat on my bed for hours, until the guards arrived to tell us we could watch the opening fights from the observation cage. I left my cell. 140 and 667 walked beside me. I entered the cell that gave us a clear view of the pit. As I looked to the stands, every seat was full and money was changing hands. My lips curled in disgust.

“Cocksuckers, every one of them,” 140 hissed from beside me, as the other fighters moved aside to let us to the front. 140 rested his hands on the bars, and we watched as Master moved to sit on his seat, guiding 152 to sit on the floor in front of him.

My pulse raced at how beautiful she looked. Her hair was up on her head, and long curled tendrils hung to the sides of her face. She was dressed in a shouldered white dress, and long earrings draped from her ears. I couldn’t move my eyes from her as she sat looking sad and uncomfortable at Master’s feet.

She shouldn’t be here.

This shouldn’t be her life.

Low mutters came from behind us. When I turned around, the three new champions were cutting through the weaker fighters. My back bristled when they came to stand beside us. 667 and 140 closed in on me. They didn’t need to. I had heard the scarred male just fine. He was right. I would destroy him in the pit.

I focused back on the arena in front of me. This was my domain. They would be the ones to fall.

Master stood to signal the guard for the match to begin. Two males ran out, their weapons held in front of them—a sword and a spear. It was a slow match, neither male gaining the upper hand. Eventually the male with the spear caught a perfect shot to the other’s heart. The mortally wounded male immediately fell to the sand.

I would have slaughtered both in seconds.

The remainder of the fights passed in a similar way. With every match, I was convinced that I would get to the final. As I glanced across to the three new males, I thought that most, if not all of them, would make it, too. A strange regretful feeling spread inside when I thought of the fact that 667 and 140 would not make it there.

Talking to them over the past several weeks had not been bad. In fact, I found myself liking talking to the warriors. They understood this life. They understood what 152 meant to me.

With that thought, my attention drifted to where she sat. She wasn’t watching the match. Her eyes were downcast, her thoughts elsewhere. I frowned, seeing the confused expression on her face. I wanted to ask her what was wrong. I wanted to press my lips to hers and make her smile.

152 suddenly flinched. I immediately knew why, when Master pressed his hand to the back of her neck. He wore a severe look on his face as another fight passed without much excitement. He was hurting her. He was pissed that his fighters were not making their kills exciting.

152 was bearing the brunt of his anger.

A low curse came from my side. When I looked across the caged cell, the scarred Russian was watching Master holding 152 with obvious fury in his eyes. Unable to stand here and watch it, stand next to this ugly fucker gawking at my female, I turned and headed back to my cell.

When I arrived, I sat on my bed and waited. I waited and waited for 152 to come to me. But as the night dragged on, and the guards didn’t arrive, I frowned. Footsteps sounded from outside, and I stood waiting for her to enter. But she didn’t. Master stood in the hallway.

Alone.

“Champions,” he called. We all walked to our cell doors. I saw 667 and 140 glaring. He met each of our eyes and said, “Tomorrow you will face fighters that are no match to you. But as my champions, I expect you to give my crowd what they want.”

“Where’s my mona?” 667 asked.

Master looked to his face. “She won’t be joining you tonight.” He next looked to me, and I noted the victory in his expression. “None of them will.”

Disappointment ripped through me, but I didn’t let it show.

667’s jaw clenched and his hands tightened on the bars. “Perform well tomorrow and you will be rewarded her in return,” Master said. He left our quarters and I moved back to my bed. I slumped down on the mattress, forcing myself to get some sleep. But all I could think of was 152. Of her metal bracelet that would inject her with drugs. Drugs that would make her need my release when I wasn’t there to ease her pain.

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.