17. The Games

The Games

Sinclair

Seventeen and I follow a cave entrance lined with torches until it opens into a cavernous arena. 1 It's as if the coliseum were carved into a mountain rather than erected from the ground. It's been filled with giant blocks of rock to form tiered seating around a sand-covered, sunken floor.

I follow Seventeen as she leads me under the stone bleachers. We reach a fork in the underground tunnel. Plaques of the families' animals are hung on the earthen walls, split between the two directions as if street signs.

"Are the guys already there?" I ask as we turn down the side with the bear. I haven't seen them since the lashing, taking dinner in my room.

"Yes."

I get a chilling feeling as we venture deeper into the mountain, following the bear signs. I stand behind my actions, but I can't help but feel trepidation for what's waiting for me ahead.

Especially since Titus's surprising moment of chivalry—or maybe he was just saving face. I didn't graffiti the Cyans' wing to get him in trouble. I keep trying to tell myself the turn of events that resulted in his punishment is a good thing. It furthers my end goal of getting them kicked out and me back home.

Still, guilt gnaws at me as I remember the sound of his torn voice and picture the puddle of his spilled blood.

But then I remember the sharp sting of his palm against my cheek. The bruises left on my hips from him roughly fucking me into the sink. And his cowardly fucking excuse. I did what I had to.

I'm calling bullshit.

They've made it plenty clear they relish my pain, and as Paisley pointed out, it would be nice if they're the ones hurting for once.

We reach our destination, a carved-out cove framed with wooden support beams like a mine. Bishop and Titus sit on a dug out bench and Ecker stops his pacing when we arrive. Three sets of eyes fall on me and my skin prickles, goose bumps raising as if their gazes are lightly trailing fingers.

I stop myself from crossing my arms to cover my body. I'm in a similar dress to the one I wore to the ceremony except instead of sheer black, the fabric is a cream-colored linen. When Seventeen showed it to me, I assumed it was some sick symbolism of being purified since joining the Echelon.

Once they stop canvassing my body with their eyes, none of them look too pleased to see me. And I can't say I'm all thrilled to see them either.

Titus's entire torso is wrapped in bandages, and he looks stiff and in pain where he sits, resting forward on his elbows. Bishop looks like he's regained some color . . . or it might just be the row of candles on a shelf behind a giant rock table or island bringing a warm glow to the space.

Nausea spills into the pit of my stomach as my eyes catch on two short chains bolted into the solid rock, metal cuffs attached to the ends.

"What is that?" I ask Seventeen, but Ecker is the one to answer.

"The victor's prize," he says with a chilling smile. "The alphas left standing at the end of the games are said to be beasts. Completely consumed by a violence-fueled rut." He trails his fingers over a spot of darker stone, and I realize it's blood that's soaked into and stained the rock.

He picks up a rusty chain then lets it drop with a sickening clatter and cuts his gaze to mine. "At some point, they realized it was easier for everyone if the omega couldn't run."

I swallow deeply. It's all too easy to imagine an omega's unanswered pleas of mercy and screams dampened by layers and layers of earth and stone.

"I have to leave you now, but I will be waiting to take you to your seat after the pack is introduced." Seventeen touches my shoulder, and I say goodbye.

She disappears around a curve in the tunnel, and Ecker sounds as petulant as Yves when he says, "Well, I hope you're happy—thanks to you, Titus is going into tonight not able to fucking move without pain, let alone fight."

A list of everything they've put me through is on the tip of my tongue, but his utter lack of acknowledgment of their role in this has me fuming. If just one of them stood up for me at breakfast, maybe none of this would have happened. Just one!

I'm so riled up, I'm not thinking clearly and end up revealing something I intended to keep secret. "I'd be happier if Bishop wasn't the only one that drank my tea this morning. You all deserve to be doubled over in pain."

"You did this?" Bishop turns his face toward me with a look of genuine hurt. His voice is extra raspy and frayed from vomiting due to the larkspur flowers I steeped with the tea.

"No," I fight back. "You did this to yourself, all of you, treating me the way you have."

Titus growls low and deadly, lunging at me like he doesn't feel any pain. His big hand wraps around my neck as he slams me against the dirt wall. His eyes flicker with gold and rage as his grip tightens around my airway.

I feel my head beginning to swim, my lungs frantically trying to inflate. But despite all that, I'm determined to spend my last seconds of consciousness returning his glowering, furious snarl with a victorious smile.

I laugh in his face with my remaining breath, and the crease between his brows deepens, his lip curling. Gold colors more and more of his irises as he lifts my feet off the ground. Black dots speckle my vision, but I keep smiling, keep laughing.

Just when my eyelids start fluttering, a horn blares, traveling through the tunnels like a ricocheting bullet. He releases me with a growl, and I fall onto the dirt. Air and my senses come rushing back. My heart beats wildly, flooding with adrenaline.

"We have to go," I hear Bishop say, clear anger in his clipped tone.

I look up to see Titus still glaring down at me like he can't decide if he's going to step on me or not. Bishop repeats himself and tugs on his shoulder.

Titus shakes his hand off and snarls before leaving. "You better hope I'm not left standing at the end of this."2

The Trial pack members meet at the mouth of the tunnel. All the omegas are in the same dress, and I can't help but think we look like sacrificial virgins. The men are shirtless in simple black boxing shorts with a wide strip of color down the sides. Each pack's stripe is a different shade of blue, representing their family name.

There's a crackling energy as we all huddle together at the tunnel gate. It's not quite anxious or eager. Maybe a combination of both.

Maybe it's bloodthirst.

The gate rises with loud metal creaking. Through the noise, I can hear someone's voice amplified around the arena, introducing the new alphas as they enter. It's met with a roaring welcome that I can feel vibrate down through the stone to us.

Two male attendants are waiting on the other side of the gate with bronze bowls in their hands. The omegas hang back so that before entering the arena, the alphas can first go to one of them and have a black charcoal-like mixture swiped across their faces. The attendant dips his hand into the bowl and uses his fingers to brush a wide streak across each alpha's forehead and eyes.

I get a better look at the crowd now and realize the paint must serve as a mask of sorts. The arena is not nearly as big as the Colosseum in Rome, but still a few hundred people fill the seats. There's no way all these people are part of the Echelon.

In fact, only one section, less than a quarter of the seats, is filled with people in the Echelon's distinctive gold masks.

Our bare feet shuffle in the sand as we're paraded around the arena with our packs like show ponies to a disembodied voice introducing us. I walk next to Ecker with Titus and Bishop on either side of us and slightly behind. Titus's presence at my back is like a cracking whip, never quite striking me but making me constantly aware that he could.

Ecker's chiseled angles are made haunting with the black paint, and every time our eyes meet, there's a promise in them.

The promise of hard stone, cutting shackles, and no one to care about my screams.

When introductions are over, I meet Seventeen with the other omegas and their attendants at the base of the stairs. We're led to a balcony with five throne-like chairs. I look around for their occupants.

The other omegas begin filling them, and Seventeen holds out her palm. "Your seat, Omega."

"Who are all these people?" I ask while I sit, looking out at all the people.

Standing behind me, she speaks quietly over my shoulder. "The worst of the worst."

"What does that mean?"

"Imagine the type of person that not only wants to watch people fight to the death but is willing to pay a small fortune to do so."

My stomach drops and chills run down my arms, making my hair rise.

Fight to the death . . .

I'm going to get my alphas killed.

If I thought this was going to be anything like the MMA fights I'd seen on TV, I'm quickly proven wrong. A second horn, like the one that summoned us, blares. Three gates on different sides of the arena rise and dozens of men come pouring out from under the stadium seats.

There are seventeen alphas, and at least forty men come running with clubs and swords and axes raised above their heads. Weaponless, the nobles form a circle and get ready to defend themselves.

"Why don't they have any weapons?" There's a frantic tone to my voice. This is the perfect setup for a bloodbath. I wanted them to lose the Trial, not die.

There's an ear-splitting howl followed by exuberant cheers. My head whips toward the sound, my heart already pounding as I imagine the worst. That's when my jaw drops and my lungs freeze.

Titus has a man face down in the dirt. The man's arm is completely out of the socket and bent behind his back while Titus claws the axe from his hand. He drops the man's arm—it falls like a wet noodle—and buries one foot between his shoulder blades.

Despite his injuries, he lifts the axe above his head and brings it down on the man's neck with one arching swing.

He gives the body a shove with the foot planted on his back and vomit shoots up my throat. I clasp my hand to my mouth.

His neck is a bloody stump, his head completely severed.

I barely have time to process the sight before another man charges Titus, and he spins around and lodges the axe in his abdomen. As he collapses, Titus grabs the spiked club from his attacker and bashes him over the head with it.

He stands tall, his own blood seeping through his bandages on his back and his opponent's blood splattering his front. Crimson drips from the club and axe as they hang in his grip. He looks like a conjuring of the devil.

"That's why they don't need to start with weapons." Seventeen's voice makes me jump, having forgotten I'd even asked a question.

As if he felt my stare, Titus's eyes find mine and I'm rocked like a ship in a storm. Black drips down his face from sweat and his gold eyes are brighter than the sun. He bares his teeth and lifts the axe.

And points it right at me.

1. Continue playing "Jagwar" by SHELLS

2. Stop playing "Jagwar" by SHELLS