“I’m just looking,” I say, already moving.
He hesitates, then follows.
The closer I get, the clearer the picture becomes.
Black reptile leather coat.
Blood-red lining.
Rings flashing under the harsh arena lights.
Mysk.
“Well,” I murmur. “There you are.”
He looks up as I approach.
And smiles.
Actually smiles.
Like this is all part of some elaborate joke that only he understands.
“Bronwyn,” he says, voice smooth despite the armored knee pressing into his back. “You look terrible.”
“Funny,” I reply. “I was about to say the same thing.”
One of the officers tightens his grip on Mysk’s shoulder.
“Don’t speak,” he snaps.
Mysk ignores him.
“Quite the spectacle,” he says, glancing toward the subdued beast. “You always did have a flair for drama.”
I stop a few feet away.
“Did you really think this would work?” I ask quietly.
He tilts his head.
“Define ‘work.’”
“You nearly killed everyone in that arena.”
“Nearly,” he repeats, like the word amuses him. “And yet here you are. Alive. Remarkable.”
My hands curl into fists.
The officer notices.
“Easy,” he warns.
I don’t move closer.
But it’s a near thing.
“You sabotaged the containment,” I say.
