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When I’m done, his soul has left his body, and all that remains is a floppy, bloody mess, his eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. I spit on the ground and get up, roaring out loud at the people on the stand.
They stare in silence, and it takes minutes before the sound of victory echoes in the hall. Bells chime, and Father runs up to pat me on the forearm.
“You did well. I’m proud of you,” he says.
Proud.
Does it even mean anything anymore?
I used to live for this moment, for his approval. But now? All I can do is gaze upward into the cell above, wanting her to see every ounce of desire I’m firing back at her with just my eyes.
God, I want her so much, it’s making me crazy.
I push Father aside and march toward the elevator, not giving a shit whether the men in the seats want to celebrate my victory or exchange the money they bet. Not even Father shouting at me, asking me where I’m going, fazes me.
I just want to get to her and her alone.
And not even Father can get between that.
Chapter Twenty
Accompanying Song: “Wheels Within Wheels” by Max Richter
Ella
I watch him come up from the ground below, his body covered in blood. I don’t know if it’s his or his opponent’s, but I do know he put up one hell of a fight. I’m still mad at him, but I can’t stop looking. Something about a man covered in blood commands attention … demands respect.
When he went down there, the first thing I did was gaze through the circular window in my floor. How could I not? I had to know if he would survive. I know they fight to the death down there, and I don’t want him to die.
Despite hating him for not resisting Graham, I don’t want him dead.
I just had to know, had to watch him fight. And it was painful … every single strike. He took them again and again, seemingly not caring about whether he’d get hurt. He didn’t defend himself, and it made me want to scream. Why was he giving up?
Graham was there, but the way they talked made it seem like they were mad at each other. But at what? What happened is a mystery to me. It was unlike him … but then he threw me that look.
I couldn’t look away and neither could he.
For some reason, just me being there, watching over him, made him change his mind.
Just like that, he found the spark he needed to fight once again.
I could see it in his body, the primal fire blazing within him as he beat his opponent to a pulp. He’s not just fighting to survive. He’s fighting … for me.
For the right to claim me.
I couldn’t stop watching him do it. Couldn’t tear myself from the glass until the fight was over and he stepped out victorious. Like a true champion.
And still … I can’t stop looking.
He unfurls the wraps around his hands, revealing the bruises underneath, but the pain doesn’t seem to move him. Instead, he takes off all his clothes like he always does and walks into the spot where the shower immediately turns on.
For a moment, I’m struck in awe at his presence … the power that scorches from his body.
I envy his ability to see through all the suffering and focus on the beauty alone.
He’s like a young man stuck in an adult’s body, seeing the world through a hazy lens.
I wonder if it’ll ever change.
Whether we get out of here or not, this man is no ordinary man.
The door bursts open, and I get up from the bed, wondering what Graham is doing here. He’s marching to my cage in an aggravated manner as if I did something wrong even though I haven’t. I face him without fear and without emotions blinding my observations. I don’t need them anymore when there’s nothing to care about. Nothing to look forward to.
I wait until he says what he has to say, but he catches me completely off guard when he plasters a piece of paper against the glass.
It’s a photograph … of Syrena.
Made just days ago.
I immediately head to the glass, not giving a shit about whether I’m in his face and throwing everything I just promised not to do out the window.
It’s her … it’s really her. And she isn’t bruised or cut or bleeding. She’s … alive.
“I sold her, but she’s unharmed,” Graham says, frowning.
I can’t stop looking at the picture, though, but then he pulls it off the glass. I feel like he just gave me a shot of heroin and then took it all away again.
However, he saunters to the box and tucks it inside, shoving it my way.
“Keep it. It’s yours,” he says.
