Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Nina

I 'm pulled into waking by degrees, my awareness spreading through my body as if I'm just discovering autonomy over my own limbs. I'm lying down with a hand tucked under one cheek and my legs curled in front of my chest. Only then does my consciousness begin to extend beyond the boundaries of myself to become aware of a ticking. A clock? A countdown timer? But for what?

I also regain the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. It creeps down my back, stiffening my spine and constricting my chest. I roll over, hoping I can catch the watcher before they notice I've woken, but there's nobody behind me. There's nobody anywhere; I'm alone. I can't even see the telltale signs of a camera.

Fucking hell. My heart races as I sit up, surveying my unfamiliar surroundings. Venn and Reke aren't here. I don't even know where here is. I'm on a bed that's large enough to fit five of me, making me feel overwhelmingly small.

"Where's Vennkor?" I demand. Just because I can't see the cameras doesn't mean there aren't any watching me. "I want to see him."

The last thing I remember is feeling so tired that I could barely keep my eyes open. Reke and I were guarding Venn and then … I struggle to remember, my head spinning.

I must have succumbed to exhaustion.

I wiggle my way to the edge of the bed. It isn't anything like Earth furniture. It hangs from the ceiling, with all four sides supported by multiple ropes. The sheets, mattress and even the ropes are green, providing a bright splash of color in an otherwise monotonous setting.

Aside from the bed, there's nothing else in the room, not even a clock, despite the continuous tick, tick, tick.

The set-up is giving me hospital-mixed-with-expensive-hotel vibes. The scent of disinfectant lingers, and the sheets are crisp, as if someone just made the bed. There's even a band around my wrist, like the clear vinyl wristbands hospitals use to identify their patients. I try forcing it off, but it's too small and won't fit around the base of my hand. I also can't break it, no matter how much I pull.

That's when I realize I'm clean. I should be covered in dried blood. It should be stuck under my fingernails and caught in the creases of my hands. It should be splattered across the front of my sweater and staining the legs of my jeans.

Someone has washed me and my clothes.

Someone was touching me when I was asleep, and I never noticed.

Fucking hell!

To distract myself, I climb down from the bed. When I try standing, my feet threaten to slip out from under me, so I get down onto my hands and knees, using the small amount of friction provided by my jeans and the cuffs of my sweater. Like that, I shuffle my way across the room to the door, refusing to abandon my half-drunk cup of water.

The door's flush with the wall, the gap between the two almost nonexistent, so that I could run my hand along the smooth surface from one corner of the wall to the other and never feel the difference.

Sitting back on my heels, I push and pull. Then I try sliding it open, but nothing happens, except that one of my arms aches. When I shove up my sleeve, I see track marks just below the crook of my elbow. Swollen and bruised, and I hate the Hov! What the fuck did they do to me when I was unconscious? An innocent IV line or something more sinister?

Furious, I search the rest of the room, searching for something I can use to escape.

All I find is the release button for the toilet, which slides neatly out of the wall. The button's painted the same white as the walls, making it basically impossible to see if you don't already know where it is. Either the Hov have a crappy sense of humor, or they're a stickler for minimalist interior design.

That's when I discover the source of the ticking. It isn't a clock at all; it's just water leaking into the toilet bowl, and I get a perverse sense of pleasure thinking about the Hov having plumbing trouble. I don't bother pressing the button again to retract the toilet. Hopefully, the dripping, which is even louder now the toilet's out in the open, will drive whichever guards are monitoring the CCTV slowly mad (if it doesn't drive me mad first).

"Where's Venn?" This time, my demand gets swallowed by the room, as if the walls have soundproofing.

I know with absolute certainty that Reke never would have let the Hov take me away from him and Venn. So something must have happened to Reke after I fell asleep. Maybe the Hov drugged us and that's why I felt so exhausted. Or maybe that'd been natural exhaustion after days of not sleeping, hardly eating and a shit ton of stress.

"Fucking, fucking hell." Spitting curses, I crawl back to the bed and use it to help me stand.

I don't believe the Hov will hurt Reke, even though he defied them by protecting Venn. He's still their handmade gladiator, the star of their entire Arena production. Maybe they'd waited until he had also succumbed to exhaustion and then had dragged him away. He might, even now, be back in the Arena, being forced to kill.

Worry churns in my stomach, because I'm not nearly so certain about Venn's fate. Reke and I might have saved him with the blood transfusion, but I don't trust the Hov not to kill him now they've separated us, especially as their patrons all believe Venn died in the Arena.

I need to know he's still alive.

I look around, desperate for answers. Maybe I could knot my sheets together and … And I've no idea. Instead, I attack the bed, wanting to salvage the ropes attaching the mattress to the ceiling. I need to be ready for whatever's going to happen next. And if a rope is the only weapon I can find in this nearly empty room, then a rope I will use. Maybe I can strangle the next motherfucking Hov guard I see until he tells me where Venn and Reke are being kept.

Shakily, I count my breaths, attempting to calm the panic that's threatening to swell up my throat and choke me. The knots are basically impenetrable, and of course I don't have Reke's broken claw to use as a knife. The Hov must have taken it from me when I was unconscious.

My chewed fingernails are little help, and soon the tips of my fingers are raw and aching. I'm fighting back tears by the time the first knot finally gives way to my determination, and the corner of the bed sags. The suddenness of the movement tosses me to the floor, and that's when the door opens.

The Guild Ambassador steps into the room. He's wearing his cloak but not his gaudy badge, which must mean he isn't here on official business; he isn't here as a representative of the Interplanetary Guild, the police force of the universe, to demand the Hov cease their illegal activity.

I'm lying eye-level with his boots—boots which assure he won't keel over on the slippery floor when he takes another step.

Hesitantly, I roll onto my back and sit up, using the hanging bed as leverage. It rocks a little more now it's not perfectly taut.

"Should you be doing that?" he asks, and then he flicks his tongue, smelling the air.

The door has already closed behind him.

"Yes." I climb onto the bed, pretending I'm getting comfortable when really I'm putting a little more distance between the two of us. Suddenly the room is feeling much more like how I'd imagine a brothel would feel—the smell of disinfectant, the gigantic bed, the bright light, the clean sheets. "What are you doing here?" I demand. Possibly, I can already guess the answer. I stand on the mattress, making myself the tallest person in the room.

"I have been speaking with the Hov." His tone is considered. Polite. Like he's on his best behavior. He's looking up at me, his tongue occasionally flicking in and out of his mouth. The artificial light makes his serrated scales glisten softly, as if someone has recently oiled them.

My imagination presents me with the absurd image of the Ambassador at home, surrounded by his own small children, and his Mate rubbing oil onto his chest to moisturize his scales. I think only another Parakian could touch him without cutting their hands. It's an unpleasant thought, considering the unspoken elephant in the room is an actual king-sized bed.

"I have negotiated for your freedom," he continues. "The Hov have agreed to let me take you with me."

I cross my arms, refusing to make this conversation easier for him.

"There are conditions, of course." He blinks those double eyelids of his, his gaze on my face. "The Hov have asked for a substantial fee. Your freedom will cost me greatly."

"Conditions? You mean like me fucking you?"

His silence is as good as a confession.

"Just because the Hov are perverted enough to have recorded me with Venn and Reke doesn't mean they had my permission. And they didn't have my permission to share that footage of us."

"You are jumping to conclusions."

"I was at the banquet too, remember? I know you watched that film of me having sex. But that doesn't mean I'll just jump into bed with anyone, even if he's offering me my freedom." I kick at the soft sheets, spilling them over the slippery floor. They slide across the room and tangle around the Ambassador's legs. "Go fuck yourself." And for good measure, I flip him off.

I doubt he knows what the finger means, but he must get the idea because he narrows his eyes, glaring at me.

One edge of his cloak has caught on one of his scales. I can see the serrated tip poking through the fabric. Whatever fabric the cloak is made of, it can't survive against the Ambassador. And neither would I, not when his dick is covered in scales like miniature knives that would cut me up from the inside out.

I always thought anger was supposed to be hot. But I'm not hot, and I don't feel like I'm about to breathe fire. I'm shivering, so cold my feet are aching.

"You are jumping to conclusions," he repeats. His voice is deadly calm. He sounds exactly like a politician being interviewed by a hostile reporter—like he's trying to save face by not admitting how furious he really is.

"Am I?" I scoff. "What's the bed for then?"

"This is the only room without cameras. I did not want us to be overheard."

I narrow my eyes, unconvinced, and return to picking at the knot holding my loosened rope to the ceiling. The fibers immediately sting my raw fingers, but I want a weapon now more than ever.

"To return to the matter, I have secured your release. I will take you away from here. I will protect you." For the first time, I hear something in his voice that suggests … excitement?

"Why?"

"I want to help you. It is as simple as that."

No, it fucking is not. Is he using me to assuage his conscience? Does he think saving me means he can pretend it doesn't matter that he gambles on the lives of other aliens?

"I'm not just going to go away with you and leave Reke and Vennkor here. You're a Guild representative. It's supposed to be your responsibility to help everyone." I look at him. "Are you going to secure their release too?"

"No."

Of course not. "But you can gamble all your money on if someone's going to get torn to shreds or not? How can you live with yourself knowing you're helping fund?—"

"You are a scudding fool," he snaps the interruption, paces a brisk turn around the room and then sinks onto the edge of the bed. The bed swings with his added weight, and I slip a little way toward him.

"You should accept," he said, his voice once again under control. "It will not be long before the Hov return you to the Arena, and we both know that you cannot survive without Reke."

"Or you?"

"Or me," he confirms. "You need me."

I don't want to need him. I want to tell him to get the fuck out of the room, but he's got information I don't have. And information is power. "How long?" I kneel, coming to sit beside him—but not close enough that he could touch me if he were to reach out. "You said it won't be long until I'm returned to the Arena. So I want to know how long."

"That is not my choice."

"But surely you've got some idea of what the Hov are planning. You're one of their most esteemed patrons, after all." I try not to choke on the word esteemed.

"There has been talk … "

"Yes," I push.

" … the Hov are having a statue of your likeness made for their Hall of Fame. There is to be another banquet."

"After the banquet, when all the wealthiest patrons have had time to place enormous bets on if I'll live or die, I'll be sent into the Arena, without Reke?" My stomach roils with the memory of the only other banquet I've attended, when the Hov forced Venn, Reke and I to stand on a stage, props to be admired by their patrons as they bet on our lives—and our deaths.

"Yes." The Ambassador doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed of himself. He must be delusional—and wealthy enough that he doesn't have to think about the consequences of his actions.

"Will you be going to the banquet?"

"I have been invited."

"So you do know exactly how long I've got." Fuck him. "When's the banquet?"

"In three nights time."

Jesus Christ. All I can hear is the dripping of the leaky toilet and my own shuddering breaths as I try to breathe through my fury.

Three nights. I've only got three nights to devise a plan of escape for Reke, Venn and me.

Or I could accept the Ambassador's offer.

"Tell me about the betting. How does it work exactly?"

He licks the air. "There is not much to explain. We bet?—"

"With who?" I interrupt impatiently, desperate to understand everything I can about the workings of this space station. Maybe then I'll finally think of an escape plan. "With each other? I mean, other patrons?"

"Yes, although mainly with the Hov. They are what we call the Host."

"Right. So for each fight, you bet on which gladiator you think will win? Or lose. Or how you think they'll be killed. Or how long you think it will take one gladiator to kill the other," I say, remembering what Venn once told me.

"We analyze many factors, including the odds. It is not a game of luck. To place a winning bet, you require skill, practice, dedication?—"

"Sure." I cut him short, disgusted by his bragging. "How do you know what the odds are?"

He draws a deep breath, trying to keep his temper under control. This conversation can't be going how he'd imagined. I didn't exactly fall to my knees, weeping with thanks for him securing my freedom. My conditional freedom.

"The Host broadcasts the odds before every fight," he says.

"For someone like Reke, the odds that he'll win would be high."

"Very. There is no point betting against the Host on any fight Reke is in. The Host will always win because Reke will always win."

"Hmm." Is there some way I can use the system against the Hov? Is there some way I can bet our way to freedom? But I can't seem to think straight. My head is spinning, and that internal voice of mine keeps repeating three days over and over again.

Three days. Three days. Three days.

"Unlike Reke," the Ambassador is saying, "you will not win, and only a fool would bet in your favor. That is why you will come away with me. Only I can save you."

"No." I stand, holding onto a rope for support.

"Without me, you will not survive."

"Why the fuck do you care what happens to me?"

He stands too, towering over me. "I do not care."

"But you clearly do, otherwise you wouldn't be here." I gesture around at the room, with the giant bed.

"I—" He flicks his tongue. One eye twitches. He's so close to losing his shit.

"What?" I demand, some part of me—the part that's fucking furious with this entire messed-up situation—wanting him to break. He's trying to act like he's better than all of this, when he's just as deep into this as I am, and by his own choice. "Why the fuck do you care?" I press my hands to my hips. "Why are you here? What do you want with me?"

"You—" He swallows. "You are different from the other gladiators. You are so determined not to die, but you cannot fight. It is an … intriguing combination."

I swear my mouth drops open. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. I'm not different. Nobody wants to have their head ripped off. Especially not in front of a cheering crowd."

"You are different. I have been watching you. I understand you."

"You do not know me." I punctuate each word with force.

"I do know—" He shuts his mouth, cutting short his shout and doing a crap job of minding his temper. "So," he says, breathing deeply, "you will come with me?"

"Nope." I cross my arms. I don't care how lonely he is, it doesn't excuse his actions. "I will absolutely not go with you."

"You would rather die than come with me?"

"Yep," I answer ruthlessly, taking no prisoners.

He starts toward the door, then abruptly turns back to look at me. "Had you said yes, I would have taken you to that planet in deep space, the one I told you about where the other Human females crash landed. I would have given you the choice to live with them, where the Hov could not have reached you. I would have?—"

"Get out." My suppressed anger grows too big to fit inside of me.

"I would have given you your freedom." He keeps staring at me. He's acting like I'm the one who's lost my mind, not the other way around. "I would have given you anything you asked for."

"I said get the fuck out of here!" I scream, but the walls muffle my voice, and I shrink back from myself, hating how tiny this disgusting room makes me feel.

"Without me, you will die." And he finally continues toward the closed door, confident it will unlock for him. Sure enough, it slides open, revealing a white corridor and two Hov guards.

"Hey!" I scramble off the bed.

The Ambassador looks back at me, but I ignore him, slipping and sliding my way across the room.

"Where's Vennkor?" I demand of the guards. "I want to see him."

Renewed fear for Venn has my heart racing. I misjudge my next step and slip backwards, landing heavily on my ass.

The Ambassador strides away, laughing humorlessly.