Page 46

The air leaves my lungs.

“What? Why am I being included in each round?” I croak.

Archon’s masked face turns toward me, and I know he’s smiling beneath it. “Because you’re interesting, number seven,” he says simply. “And this is my game, remember?”

“Screw you!”

“I think that offer is reserved for someone else, hm?”

Oh my God. He knows.

It takes everything in me not to peek at Cage in the corner of the room and make it obvious.

“S-Sloane. I’m not breaking anyone’s fucking fingers,” Dimitri announces.

“You’re not carving jack shit into her, especially not your damn initials.” Christian shoves his chair back so hard it topples, standing like he’s ready to tear Dimitri apart with his bare hands. His face is twisted with rage, veins popping out of his neck.

“Touch her and I’ll—”

A guard is on him before he can finish. The cold barrel of a gun presses hard against Christian’s temple. “Sit. Down.”

Christian’s chest heaves. For a second, I think he’s going to keep going anyway. Then his eyes flick to the gun and he slowly, stiffly lowers himself back into his chair.

Good choice, tough guy.

Dimitri grabs Sloane’s already injured arm and yanks it flat against the table.

Sloane starts to pull back.

“Keep your hand on the table, Sloane. Or I’ll have my guards do all seven letters of his name, and they cut deep, trust me,” Archon threatens.

She freezes, tears streaming down her face. Slowly, trembling, she places her hand flat on the aging wooden surface. “Please—”

“I’ll make it quick.” The knife digs in, carving the first vertical line of a sharp D into her forearm.

Blood wells up, bright and thick, following the path of the blade as he rounds the curve. She tries to twist away again, but Dimitri only digs the knife deeper, finishing the vertical stroke with a steady hand.

I can’t look away.

Blood runs down her arm in thin streams, dripping onto the table. It’s almost… beautiful. She bites her lip until it splits, trying to keep the sounds in, but a small sob still escapes every time the blade moves.

When he’s done his careful artwork, Sloane curls over her arm, shaking, blood soaking into the fabric of her long-sleeve dress.

“Christian,” Archon says, and there’s increasing anticipation in his voice now, almost sing-song. “Your turn. Would you rather…” Archon continues, placing a screwdriver on the table—long and sharp, the kind meant for heavy-duty blue-collar work. “Stab Blair with this… or Dimitri?”

Christian’s gaze slides to me. There’s something monstrous in his eyes, something ugly lurking beneath the surface. The corner of his mouth tilts.

I am utterly fucked.

He doesn’t glance in Dimitri’s direction, not even once. “Blair.”

I close my eyes and breathe out.

God, help me. Help me, please.

He’s going to kill me.

He stands, picking up the screwdriver. The metal is like a gun as he moves around the table toward me.