The earthy scent of leather fills my nose as he wipes the spittle onto my face. The bumps and scrapes of the floor biting into my skin as he drags me barely register in my brain. For a blissful moment, I give in to the nothing.
Checkmate.
A spotlight shines around me, white hot and blinding, slapping me into reality with all the force of a Mack truck. A wave of sickness spears through my stomach as I blink against the onslaught of brightness. People lounge on glittering, overstuffed couches just below the lip of the stage, dressed tothe nines and drinking cocktails. I suck in a breath as dozens of glaring eyes settle in my direction.
Checkmate.
Hands reach out to touch me as I pass, caressing up my sides or down my thighs. Jabbing into my gut. Wherever I look, hands reach for me, push me, drag me along—and in my head, I’mscreaming, but I can’t seem to force the sound past my parched lips. The drugs make me unsteady as I weave away from them. Soon, I’m away from their reach, chains rattling against the wooden center of the raised dais. To my left, there are several others shackled beside me; to my right, more are on the way.
Two people are pushed into a hexagonal cage off to the right in the crowd. Finely woven mesh wire covers every inch of the skeletal structure.
My gaze locks on the shock of platinum hair on the first fighter that marks him as Silver Rogue, a hero known for his icy disposition. We’ve never worked together, but I’m familiar with his skills. I don’t recognize the second until the match begins. His figure becomes fuzzy, opaque, and would disappear altogether if he were at his full strength. Shadow Sight panics and swings at Silver Rogue instead. The blow misses one sharp cheekbone by a narrow margin. Silver Rogue’s palm rises, ready to freeze his opponent. Shadow Sight rears back, but the blast never comes.
A knife slides across the floor and into the ring with a clatter. Their eyes meet, and something innately human breaks within them in that moment. I see it as the light leaves their pupils, their expressions turning feral. They dive for it.
I should look away, but like the jeering crowd, I’m helpless against the draw of the violence. I retch as a blade slips beneath Shadow Sight’s skin, crimson spilling from a slit running from his nostril to his left ear. Sweat prickles my brow, my head swimming through waves of vertigo.
Keep it together. Don’t faint.
And I think I can, until I catch an oily-looking man with a pasty complexion and lanky, dark hair watching me from across the room. There’s something about him that seems so familiar; I just can’t pinpoint what. His attention makes my skin crawl as it rakes over my body, the corners of his lips curling as he makes his way to the stage. I take in his gray-brown, grease-caked khakis. The yellow of his turtleneck could double as Dalmatian print, given all the stains.
“Never thought I’d see you here, Checkmate. To whom should I send the thank you note?” He reaches toward the strand of hair that has fallen out of my ponytail. Baring my teeth in a snarl, I take a bite at the offending fingers.
Elegant, white-gloved fingers clasp around his wrist with a snap tight enough to bruise. “Don’t touch my toys, Stanley.”
My muscles tighten. That deep, rich, intoxicating intonation haunts my nightmares, conjures a hundred memories as predator and prey. Hunter and hunted. It’s all I can do not to shake again as I look up at his tall form, fear crackling through my core.
Unlike the crowd, Charade has chosen to keep with his usual attire. The black and white suit fits perfectly around his muscled body, its almost liquid quality accentuating his athletic stature. I always thought of it as eveningwear meets abstract painting to create something that is purely lethal.
“She isn’t yours,” Stanley snarls.
Charade smirks as the man in the green suit runs over with a large ring of keys. “Do you really think I could pass this up?”
The color bleeds from my face along with the rest of my nerve. I double over, my stomach lurching as I dry-heave again, panicked. His crooked smile dims as he leans over my hunched form, fingers curling under my chin to tip my gaze to his. “Good evening, little martyr.”
“Spineless fucking bastard.” I’m grateful it’s my fury that greets him, that even as I quiver, my bravado hasn’t betrayed me.
The green suit’s fingers curl into a fist, and I close my eyes, bracing for another blow.
Charade steps in front of me. “I didn’t pay for damaged goods.”
“I’ll show you damage.” If these are my last moments, I won’t spend them cowering.
Charade ignores me. The thug visibly relaxes under his touch, his fingertips lightly gripping the pale wrist just below his sleeve.
“What happened to dearest Checkmate under your care?”Charade’s influence is laced through his words as much as it flows from his touch.
His whole being loosens as if he’s drunk, answer coming out slurred. “Some of these deviants are stronger than others. We have to starve them.”
Charade scowls. Green Suit looks satisfied with himself. Proud even. My heart lurches, and—damn the consequences—I wait for him to fit the key into the lock, giggling and whispering nonsense that only he seems to understand. When the metal drops away and my hands fall free, I swing my weight forward, hurtling my body like a battering ram.
The blow lands on his stupid, smug face. The gratifying crunch of a broken nose is all I hear before my knees hit the floor.
I flinch as cool fingertips brush onto the nape of my neck, thumb curling over my jugular. My true enemy kneels in front of me, a glove bunched into his free hand. His powers leak into my skin with the pounding of my heart, tendrils wrapping around my mind.
The effect is instantaneous. My thoughts slow, come apart half formed. My consciousness pulls like taffy, and Charade is goddamn Willy Wonka.
At least the room stops spinning.
