Until finally her pupils reduced in size and stayed that way. Sweat dripped off our slick bodies in the aftermath. The mona fell asleep through exhaustion, saving me from the awkwardness of what came next.
My arms shook on either side of her head as I stared down at her pale cheeks. Every time I had taken her, I could see more blood draining from her flushed skin. I could feel her limbs becoming weaker with exhaustion, yet the drug overrode her need to stop. It led her on and on, it pushed me more and more, until no energy ran in our blood. Until we had no more left to give. Until she passed out.
She was young. Lying here, her once contorted face now relaxed in sleep, I could truly study her. Checking there was no guard behind me watching my moment of interest, I slowly lifted my hand and brought my fingers to her face. I frowned at the size of my hand compared to her face. My hand was scarred and rough from too many fights. Against her perfect skin and pretty features, it didn’t look right. It didn’t belong anywhere near her face.
But I lowered my fingertips anyway, brushing them across the cooling skin of her forehead. The mona stilled for a second, as did my hand. I froze, but then a breathy sigh left her mouth and she fell back to sleep. I waited, hovering above her for a full minute, before moving my fingers around her eyes, my lips twitching at her long black lashes kissing her cheeks. I extended a finger and brought it down her small nose, then down to her full lips.
For some reason, I had to stare at those lips. As a boy, Master had made us watch the pit fights that would become our future—but rather than watch the fights, I would focus on the people in the crowd. I would study each of them, both males and females. I would wonder where they had come from. I would wonder why they were there.
My eyebrows lowered as I remembered seeing a male seated beside Master lean down and place his lips against the female beside him. My tongue ran around my lips as I wondered what it would be like to press my lips to this mona’s.
Without thinking, I felt my head lowering toward hers, my lips hovering a fraction from hers. The mona’s warm breath spread across my face. I abruptly drew my head back, pulse thundering in my neck.
A wave of molten anger ripped through my veins. I wrenched out of the mona’s channel and staggered to my feet. My legs shook from too much exertion. My hands lifted to grip my hair, and I pulled, a growl spilling from between my taut lips.
What was I doing? I silently asked myself. Why was I trying to touch her lips?
Needing to calm down, I began to pace back and forth on the stone floor. My teeth ground in frustration, my neck muscles tightened to the point of pain, my hands clenched into tight fists.
Master was trying to mess with my mind. I knew it. That sick motherfucker knew it. He knew what putting her in this cell would do to me. He knew what having her in need, arching and moaning on the ground, would do. He knew that the aggression drugs I was given would ensure my dick responded.
I serviced her.
I calmed her fire with my release.
But I wanted none of the rest. I couldn’t let myself care what she looked like when she came. I couldn’t let myself care how sad she sounded when her pupils shrank back to normal size and she thanked me for temporarily setting her free from the pain.
And I couldn’t let myself care about her lips. I couldn’t let myself care about her at all. She had to be just a mona, Master’s mona. I must not let her destroy me.
Without a second glance, I lay down on my mattress and turned my back to her sleeping body. I closed my eyes, pushing all thoughts from my mind. My rage simmered as I focused on not smelling the mona’s scent on my skin. But it didn’t last for long; exhausted, sleep took me in its hold and quickly pulled me under.
When my eyes opened, a guard was at my door. I immediately sat up, my eyes narrowing at the glare of victory in his gaze. “Up,” he commanded when he saw me watching him.
I got to my feet, ignoring the aches in my arms and legs. When the guard opened the door, I resisted the urge to turn and look at the mona on the ground.
I had failed. Master had won this round. But I was a warrior through and through. He wouldn’t win the ultimate battle. I could take her without feeling. I would make myself feel nothing.
I had succeeded for years. This challenge would be no different.
I walked down the hallway to the medical room, joining the line of waiting males. Someone moved behind me, and when I heard, “You did the right thing,” I turned around.
667 met my eyes. 140 stood directly behind him, his eyes focused past me, staring at nothing.
“You saved her,” 667 added. My lips rolled over my teeth in annoyance of his praise.
“I fucked her to shut her the hell up,” I snapped back, and saw his censure toward my response flash across his livid expression.
“Good,” 140 remarked, his voice low and raw. “Keep it that way. Fuck and forget. You’ll be better off.”
The entire time he spoke, 140 stared straight forward, never facing me. Maybe I’d been mistaken. Maybe Master killing his mona wouldn’t kill him, maybe it made him more of a threat.
The line moved quickly until I was at the front. An old female chiri jabbed the injection into my arm. Then I made my way to the training pits. My trainer stood waiting for me, my Kindjals ready for my hands. I picked them up, feeling complete now that the metal was in my palms.
My energy spiked, having just received my drugs. My trainer struggled to take my relentless slices and strikes with his shield. But I didn’t stop, hammering blow after blow, until a whistle was blown—the sign that Master wanted to speak.
As conditioned, we all walked to the center pit. A podium towered above us. I had to fight back a snarl when Master climbed up to speak.
He was dressed all in black, hair slicked back, and his hard eyes tracked over his prime males. I watched as he inhaled deeply, before he clapped his hands together and said, “I have an announcement to make. In four weeks’ time, all our lives will change.” The males around me began rocking on their feet, too pumped up with the drug to stand still and listen. We were fighters. That’s all we knew.
“In four weeks’ time,” he repeated, “the Blood Pit will be hosting its very first death-match championship.” Males moved to stand either side of me. In my peripheral vision, I noticed they were 667 and 140.
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.”