The champions of the pit were standing in line.
The movement caught Master’s attention, and he looked at his current champions standing side by side. A slow grin spread on his lips and he said, “We have Blood Pit Champions”—he pointed our way, then dropped his arm—“but I own many gulags around the world, all boasting their own champions.” He paused, then continued. “In four weeks’ time, those champions will be brought here to my arena. Three champions from each, along with some of my associates’ personal fighters.” His eyes swept over the many males listening to his every word. “This tournament will weed out the weak and unskilled warriors. This tournament will test you all in ways you have never been tested before.” His eyes fell upon me, and he emphasized, “Those who will be entered—and they will be only a select few of my best fighters—will represent this pit.” He took a deep breath and announced, “And from all the champions of the death-match world, only one will remain. The ultimate champion. And that champion…” he paused for effect, “will win his freedom.”
Murmurs broke out among the males standing around me, their eyes lit with the excitement and the prospect of freedom. But I stayed stoic, my eyes never leaving Master. I watched him absorb the reaction from the males. But he wouldn’t get one from me. I knew his games. I couldn’t let myself believe that this was true.
Master played with our minds, gave us false promises time and time again. It was what held his pleasure.
This couldn’t be real.
As I heard the excitement from the other males, I knew I was the only one doubting this news.
Master raised his arms, and the guards moved around us with electric prods to calm us down. The males quieted and Master stepped forward. “In the coming four weeks, we will be holding rounds for who shall compete.” He then focused on us three champions. “And my champions, who have already secured a place in the tournament, will engage in demonstration matches to ensure we have my associates firmly on board.”
Master stayed silent, drinking in the euphoria from the males below him, then he swiftly turned and left the podium. A whistle sounded, and we all walked back to our pits to resume training. As I swung away, honing my skills, I could hear that the grunts of exertion were stronger from the other fighters. I could hear the louder clanging of metal on shields. I could hear the trainers ordering more effort. I could feel the sense of hunger from the males.
Hunger for freedom.
My trainer blocked and fought back against my blows, but he suddenly stopped when a figure appeared before my pit. I knew who it was before looking up. Only one male drew that much respect. Or obedience. In this Blood Pit, those lines were blurred.
“901,” Master called. My shoulders tensed. Calming my inner flames, I turned and met his stare. Master jumped down into the pit and strode to where I stood. He stopped only when he was as close as he could get without touching. He looked up into my eyes and smiled. His head dropped to the side. “Tell me, 901. How was my High Mona last night?”
I glared but stayed silent. Master shrugged. “My guard tells me that you tried to resist.” He paused, then leaned in to say, “But no man could resist her, could he?” He glanced away like he was picturing something in his mind. When he faced me again, he said, “Tell me, did you taste her, 901?”
When I didn’t respond, he pushed, “Did she scream out when you made her come … did she rake your skin?” Master walked around to my back. I knew he would see her nail marks. I expected him to gloat, but when he walked back to stand before me, his face was no longer rapt with victory. Instead, I could see the fury in his tight expression. Could see the rage, the psychotic possession he had for 152 in his unhinged glare.
Turning his back, he went to walk away, and I let my anger free and bit, “I took her all night long. Until she passed out.” He stilled, and I added, “Last night I made her mine.”
I watched as Master’s shoulders tensed, then he whipped round. Taking my hand, he guided my Kindjal’s tip to my throat. I didn’t even flinch as his lips drew back to bare his teeth and his face flushed a deep red color.
He wouldn’t do it.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guards lining up around my pit, their guns ready to take me out if I lashed out in reaction and tried to kill their king. Lowering my head, I pressed the tip harder to my throat, feeling my blood trickle down my neck. Master’s jaw pulsed. I could see him fighting back his desperate need to kill me.
“Do it,” I hissed. And only for him to hear: “Do. It.”
Then, in a flash, Master drew back, a neutral expression commandeering his face. He righted his suit, then walked away as if he hadn’t just nearly taken out his prized fighter. The prized fighter who had just taken his most prized possession.
As Master walked out of view and away from my training pit, I let the blood trickle down my chest and turned to charge at my trainer.
I wasn’t going to win this championship for my freedom. I was sure that would never come.
No, I was going to win it to fuck with Master’s mind. Just the way he loved to fuck with mine.
And I would. Because I never lost.
I was the motherfucking champion.
Not even the taste of 152 could take away my fire.
7
152
I stayed huddled in the corner, my body shivering at the cold drifting in through the large cell doors. I looked down at my torn dress and closed my eyes as I pictured 901 ripping it from my body with his bare hands.