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"I guess it would depend on who they put me up against."
My response makes her angry. "I said I didn't know, all right?" She tosses her bowl down onto the tray between us, spilling broth on the smooth surface. "I don't trust them, and I don't like that they're asking me instead of you."
"They want to turn us against one another, perhaps," I say, uneasy. Mina is the only thing I have that is good and right. I like her more than soft blankets, more than the best meals. I like her more than the fresh breeze on my face when we're outside. I would choose her over all of that. But I do not know if she would choose me, and the thought makes my gut clench.
"They're assholes," Mina agrees, an unhappy look on her face. "I worry they're going to push you into fighting when you're not ready."
She worries over me? I am surprised. "What about you?"
"What about me?" Mina tilts her head, her brows dark slashes of frustration. "Aren't you listening, Crulden? They want me to spy on you and tell them how you're doing with your fighting. It makes me angry. They're asking me to tell on you."
My heart swells with warmth that she wishes to protect me. "Mina, everyone here will be asked how I am fighting. The trainers, the scientist, the glads I spar with. I expect this. Do not worry about it."
"I just don't want to sell you down a river."
I have no idea what that means, but her protectiveness makes me feel…good. Good in ways that are so different from the scientist's careful monitoring of my health. "You won't. I trust you with my life."
Her jaw clenches. "I don't want it to come to that, Crulden. I don't know anything about fighting. What if I tell them you're a frightening badass and then someone else steps into the ring with you and rips your throat out?"
Now my pride is stung. She thinks I would be so easily defeated? "Then I am the problem, not you."
"Yes, but I don't want that to happen."
Is this what is souring her mood? "So you think I will be so easily destroyed once I fight?" I push aside my own bowl. "I might as well give up now if I am so very fragile."
Her mouth opens. A hot flush crosses her face and she scowls at me. "Don't get butthurt. They want to put you in the ring and if you're not ready, they want me to tell them so they can bet against you. How do you think that makes me feel?"
"It should be an easy answer, since I will apparently get my throat ripped out at the first sign of danger." I get to my feet, and my angry surge makes the tray flip over. The remnants of our food splatter on the floor between us, and Mina makes a frustrated sound. I stomp to the far end of my cell, pacing in front of the windows, and my tail flicks with agitation. This is different than my normal fury—my spikes feel buried deep, and my eyes do not burn like they do when they are about to flare red. I am just…annoyed.
She thinks I am weak.
She thinks I cannot handle what they throw at me.
She thinks I will die the moment I enter the arena. Such confidence in me. Fighting is my only job. It is something I have been bred—been created—to do. And she thinks I will fail.
It is galling.
The clink of dishes sounds behind me. Mina crouches on the floor, cleaning up our mess. She mops it up with one of the plas-film napkins she brought, and glares at me when she tosses the towel onto the tray. "I'm not going to fucking apologize," she hisses at me as she picks up the tray, kicks the stem of the stand to make it retract, and then carries it into the food slot. "Excuse me for being worried about you, you big ass. It won't happen again."
She taps the button to send the tray to the other side with more force than I've ever seen her use. She tosses a glare at me and marches toward the antechamber, no doubt so she can take the tray back to the kitchens and give herself a chance to get away from me.
I pace angrily, watching. So she thinks to retreat from me?
The doors to the antechamber don't respond. She swipes her wrist again, and again, and then glares up at the ceiling. She realizes at the same time that I do that they are going to force her to stay with me. "Those fucks. I hate everyone here. Everyone." She kicks at the door with her small foot and then storms toward our shared bed. As I glare, she snags the blanket, pulls it over her head, and lies flat and stiff.
