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“ME!” he thundered, jabbing his chest with a finger. His face heated up with fury, the bands in his neck rigid. “Me, Dallas! That’s who!”
“You?” she scoffed.
“Yes. Me.”
“Why do you care so much, huh? Why?” She threw her hands out in question. “Why can’t you just mind your own business—”
His next words were shouts. “Because I love you, that’s why!”
She was too stunned to speak. She stared at him, mouth agape.
“I fucking love you, Dallas.” His lungs were strained, his throat raw from yelling. “I don’t just love you, I’m crazy about you. But you’ve got your head so far up your ass, you can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
“I hate you.” Her voice was quiet, defeated. And even though he knew she didn’t mean it, the words stung. “I hate you for saying that.”
The hurt went away, and in its place was anger. “You hate me for saying that I love you?” The Surge crept closer, the trembling in his arms visible now, no longer in his head.
“Yes!” Her voice broke, and her eyes welled up.
“You know what, Dal? I’ve had it with your bullshit games. I’m breaking up with you.”
The words silenced Dallas. As Max looked at her, he saw two things happen.
One. A flame inside her went out. Died at the truth of his words—and the lack of hesitancy in them.
Two. A light came on in her head. The kind that appeared when a person’s judgment was no longer clouded.
The kind of light that flicked on the moment you realized what you’d lost and feared it was too late to save.
Dallas’s throat bobbed. “Max—”
An ear-splitting roar shook the Umbra Forum. The booming sound reverberated all the way over here, the river rumbling at his back.
Max’s head whipped toward the black market, magic and adrenaline sparking in his veins.
The ground quaked. Vehicles rattled. Streetlights buzzed, lightbulbs nearly popping.
Dallas’s voice was a hollow whisper. “What was that?”
—
Darien sat on the peeling bench in the empty change room of the Chopping Block, his gauze-wrapped hands clasped before him as he waited to be summoned.
There was a tightness in his chest, a sharp squeezing that hadn’t relented since he’d hurtled in here, barely making it in time for the next match. Coupled with the tightness was a curling sense of dread, a feeling that hadn’t left him alone since the night he’d walked into his suite to discover that Loren was gone. That awful memory was enough to make that glass-in-lungs sensation come back. He could barely draw a breath without his whole body trembling, fingers interlocking tightly.
The Chopping Block reeked worse than the Pit. But to be fair, more killing went on in these walls than in those of his usual haunt. The air held an odd perfume of vomit, blood, and sweat, all coated in the salt of tears. There was an eerie presence in these walls, like a cold breath on the back of the neck, or a shadow moving in the corner of your vision that disappeared when you turned to look at it.
So much death. So many lost souls and sinners gambling for fleeting riches and recognition. A broken place for broken people.
People like him. Misery always did love company.
The door creaked as someone pushed it open. With his head bowed, Darien could see nothing of the person who entered, except a worn boot and the tattered corner of a trench coat.
“Ready to get that black out of your eyes?” said a deep, gravelly voice, the words echoing against the walls. Darien lifted his head to see the Butcher standing in the entrance of the change room, one beefy hand propping the door open.
“I was born ready.” Literally. When his mother had given birth to him, his eyes had been pure black. It had taken a solid three days before they’d turned blue.
With a tilt of his head, the Butcher gestured to the hallway and the arena beyond. “You’re up.”
