Maybe I’d get my neck snapped and miss the entire miserable day.
One could only hope.
The Overseer watched from the central platform, elbows resting on the railing as if he was enjoying a pleasant afternoon. Pale eyes trailed over me—searching for a sign I’d broken, a flicker of fire on my skin, the unhinged expression of a monster gone rogue.
I grinned and flipped the bastard off. Both hands, in case he didn’t take the hint.
He nodded to his guards.
The gate on the far side opened, and another prisoner stepped through.
A big male—even taller than me, broad-shouldered, with scars like carved lines across his arms. He was well-fed, in his prime, layered with muscle. One eye was milky, dead. The other burned with feral hunger.
They called him Brutus.
Because subtlety completely escaped these idiots.
The giant rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck, andwhen he looked at me, there was nothing sane left in his gaze. Just bloodlust sharpened into violence and cruelty. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one being starved half to death.
The Overseer snapped his fingers, and the bell rang again, sharper this time. I dropped my weight back onto my heels, bending my knees, battered ribs screaming.
Brutus moved first, a blur despite his size. I was so weak, I barely had time to shift my weight before a fist slammed straight into my ribs. Pain exploded white-hot, and for a heartbeat, my entire world narrowed to the rush of bile flooding my throat.
I staggered, forced myself to breathe through the searing agony, then I stepped into his next swing, catching his wrist and twistinghard.
Bones snapped like sticks, joints torqued, tendons tore. He’d heal fast, but this would buy me a minute. Brutus snarled and yanked back, then drove his shoulder into my chest, driving the air from my lungs.
I hit the sand, teeth rattling. The crowd—if you could call starving prisoners a crowd—made a sound that was a half-groan, half-curse as his good fist came down like a hammer.
I rolled to the side, came up on one knee, and spat a dark thread of blood.
Hunger immediately clawed at me when I tasted it. My own blood was useless, but instinct didn’t care anymore. It just wanted. And wanted.And wanted.
Brutus lunged, and I ducked, the punch whistling over my head, and slammed my forearm into his throat, crushing his esophagus. He choked, staggered, but didn’t go down. Instead, his next wild swing caught my cheekbone, starsbursting behind my eyes. My skin split, crimson misting the air between us.
I didn’t care.
I moved faster than him this time, twisting his other arm, driving my knee into his stomach, and when he doubled over, I hooked his planted ankle and swept my feet underneath.
He crashed to the sand with a grunt, trying to catch himself with two broken arms. With his bulk, that was a no-go, one shoulder popping out of joint. I followed him down, pressing my forearm across his throat, not to kill—but for him to submit.
He bucked beneath me. My broken ribs screamed, blood gushing from me, from him, hunger carving me apart at the coppery scent. My arms shook from the effort, his face turning red, then purple.
“Tap out, you fucker. Don’t make me do this,” I grunted. “Be smart, for once in your godsdamned life.”
His hand scrabbled in the sand, found a jagged rock. He swung in a clumsy circle, aiming for my temple, clipping my ear when I jerked back. Pain flared for a second, and warm blood poured down my neck.
The crowd hissed, then fell silent as the Overseer leaned forward, interested.
“You had your chance,” I hissed, catching Brutus’s wrist and slamming it into the sand—once, twice, three times—bones shattering until the rock fell from numb fingers. Then I drove my elbow into his jaw.
His head snapped sideways, and he went still.
Not permanently.
They’d drag him back to his cell, where he’d recover after a few days.
Someone started clapping, a slow and mocking sound.The kind of clap that made your insides shrivel up. I was too weak to stand, sand sticking to my blood-soaked skin. A guard hauled Brutus away by the shoulders, limp as a fish.
