The unhinged grin that cracks over Max’s face when he strides to it, yanks it free like it belongs in his hands, isn’t lost on me.

  “He’s smiling,” I say over the roar of the crowd, heart kicking.

  “Of course he is,” Tass snickers, like I’ve missed something obvious. “Figures. It’s the best thing they could’ve given him.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well, for one, it’s for distance. Lets you keep the bastards at bay. Less bitey-bitey, you know? And also…” her lips twitch, “Roe used to train us with those. Max knows exactly how to use it.”

  “He did?”

  Tass waves toward the council seats, and I follow her gesture. Roe’s still there, the red beret stark against the crowd, and there’s the faintest grin tugging at his lips.

  The gate rattles again, louder now, then slides up. My stomach lurches, focus snapping back to Max.

  And Tass was right. Injuries or not, he moves smoother now, grip steady, weight shifting like he’s been waiting for this. Maybe he was exaggerating the pain he was in before. Playing them. Playing Noura.

  There’s no mistaking in the way he holds the weapon, though. He definitely knows how to handle a spear.

  He twirls it left, right, lets it spin once, then snaps it forward in two sharp thrusts, testing reach and weight. One last sweep arcs wide, whistling through the air as the gate rattles higher. There’s still a hitch in his step, but with steel in his grip it almost vanishes, like the weapon itself drains the pain out of him. Makes him stronger.

  The first Walker scuttles through the small gap, half-crawling, half-lunging. Quick. Too quick. Its limbs jerk like broken wires, its body folding and snapping in angles no human ever should, scrambling across the dirt like a fucking spider.

  I hold my breath, heart fucking pounding, as Max pivots, smooth as a dancer, and the spear sings through the air. One strike, straight through its throat. The crowd erupts as the body convulses, black-red blood spraying, but Max doesn’t pause.

  The second Walker bursts out right behind the first, lunging for him before the corpse even hits the ground. Max wrenches the spear free with a grunt, twists, and drives the butt of it hard into its knees. Bone cracks. It stumbles, and in the same breath he spins the shaft, builds momentum, and slams the blade through its eye socket.

  The skull caves with a wet crunch. The Walker drops limp at his feet.

  Two down. Fast. Clean.

  “He’s a bit dramatic, isn’t he?” I say when he yanks the spear free again. Blood arcs with the pull, splattering his bare chest, and he still finds the breath to bare his teeth in a twisted grin—twirling the shaft, crouching low in that predator’s stance before beckoning the next forward.

  Tass snorts beside me, finally relaxing enough to lean back again, her long legs crossing at the ankle. “Please. He’s theatrical as fuck. The first time I saw him fight, I thought he was auditioning for some stupid play. Showboating comes naturally to him.”

  I can see it. It’s written in the curl of his lips, the way his shoulders loosen with every kill, the way he pivots on his boots like the dirt itself bends to him, every muscle wound tight and precise. A fucking god in its own right.

  By the time the third Walker crawls out jerking on all fours, he doesn’t even look like he’s fighting, he looks like he’s playing.

  He taunts them. I’ve never seen anyone taunt a fucking Walker before. He jabs the spear close enough for one to snap its teeth, then yanks it back, laughing under his breath like this is all just sport. All signs of his injuries are long gone, burned away by the adrenaline roaring through him, by that hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

  “This is lunacy,” I whisper, right as he slams the spear clean through the third’s skull and, in the same breath, boots another square in the chest to send it sprawling.

  “This is Max,” Tass replies dryly, tossing the green tops of the strawberries into the Pit below. Then she cups a hand lazily to her mouth. “Whoo-hoo. Go team!” she cheers.

  The gate groans wider, and five more pour through at once. Some shuffle, slack-jawed, slow. Others come fast, too fast, their limbs jerking like broken marionettes. My stomach lurches, and I can’t help it… I cover my face, peeking through my fingers like I did as a child, watching those stupid horror DVDs my neighbor loved.

  Max barrels straight into them. The spear arcs, clean and brutal, and Walker number five drops with a split skull. Number six goes right after, the point of the spear flashing sideways in a blur.

  I let out a breath, take another deep one as I try to calm myself, my chest shuddering. He’s fine. He’s got this. Three to go.

  He’s not just fighting the Walkers, he fucking obliterates them.

  He’s showy, sure—spinning the spear, crouching low, blood dripping red across his chest—but who wouldn’t be, with that kind of talent? That raw, vicious grace that makes slaughter look like art.

  And gods help me… I can’t look away.

  I don’t think I’ll ever want to.

  He goes fast, too fucking fast. Max moves like the Pit is his stage and he’s the only actor worth watching. The spear whirls, thrusts, cracks bone and punches through skulls. One drops, then he’s on the next, the corpses piling up at his feet.

  But the last one, shit, the last one catches him. He’s mid-spin, glaring at the eighth one he just disposed of, when it lunges. Claws rake his back, delve into his shoulder, and suddenly it’s on him, teeth sinking in his throat.

  My heart seizes.

  Max doesn’t panic. Doesn’t even flinch. He hurls the thing clean over his shoulder, muscles straining, then drives the spear down with a roar. The blade punches through its mouth, pinning it to the dirt, and he leans on it until the twitching stops.

  Silence spreads for half a breath. The smell of blood is thick enough to choke.

  Then he looks up at me.

  Still hunched over the corpse, spear tight in his grip, chest heaving, bruises blooming darker by the second. I don’t know how he has the time to find me in all this chaos, but he does. His wild gaze pins me, raw and unrelenting, and something hot and vicious spikes right through my ribs.

  He’s amazing. Terrifying. Fucking unforgettable. A warrior carved out of blood and grit, like he was born for this pit and everything in it.

  “How many bites did he get?” Sami asks, leaning over Tass, breaking through the static in my skull.

  “Two, I think,” she answers, and I tear my gaze away from my Max with effort, frowning at her.

  “Yes, it’s two,” someone behind me confirms with a laugh.

  Sami grins broad and wolfish, turning to the voice. “Hand over the goods, Coen. I said two.”

  My eyes widen. “You placed a bet on his life? That your friend would get bitten two times?”

  Sami shrugs, unbothered, counting his coins. He leans close enough I catch the twinkle in his eyes. “Max told us to bet on two before they took him. We have more coin to collect tonight.”

  I can only fucking blink. They… They… They’re fucking insane.

  But it’s finally done. The last Walker slides limp off his spear with a disgusting gurgle, and Max turns. Slowly. Deliberately. His attention finds the dais. Finds her.

  Noura.

  And holy shit, he’s got balls, because he doesn’t just face her. He bows. A mocking, sweeping bow.

  Then he lifts his head, and the glare he pins her with is unhinged, monstrous, vile. It burns hotter than the sun itself. I can taste the hate from here, bitter as copper on my tongue.

  She’d better run for her godsdamned life. Hide where he can’t find her. Because if looks could kill, she’d already be a smear on the stone.

  Then Max twirls the spear once, twice, slow and deliberate, testing it in his hand.

  Tass groans, dragging her hands down her face. “Oh, please tell me he isn’t going to do it.”

  “He is,” Sami mutters, voice flat with certainty. “He is going to do it.”

  My eyes go wide, breath choking in my throat, as Max plants his feet and lets out a guttural shout when he hurls the spear.

  Straight at the council.

  Chaos explodes. They duck, red cloaks flaring, screams echoing, the crowd going wild, half in terror, half in awe. Coins fly into the air, the roar of voices deafening.

  Only one man doesn’t move. Commander Roe stays seated, head thrown back as he laughs, the sound lost in the pandemonium.

  The spear slams into the dais with a violent crack, burying itself dead center in the wood right beneath Noura’s chair. Splinters spray down in the arena.

  She shoots to her feet, face red, eyes blazing, seething like she could combust on the spot.

  And then… dead silence. The entire arena holds its breath.

  Max just tilts his head, expression all faux innocence, smirk curling sharp. “Apologies, Magistrate El-Amin. It slipped out of my hand.”

  Noura’s composure cracks. Her voice rips through the Pit, shrill and unhinged, echoing off the stone: “The fight was over. That was a direct defiance against the magistrate, against me. Bring in more! Ten more! Feed him until he chokes on his own arrogance!”

  The crowd gasps, then roars, chaos swelling like a storm about to break.

  Oh fuck no. No, no, no. Not more. Not ten more while he’s already exhausted. He might not show it, but I can see the drag in his shoulders, the hitch in his breath. It’ll be the end of him.

  Not now. Not yet.

  But Max just lifts a finger. A single, lazy shake of his head, like he’s telling the magistrate herself to sit down and shut up. And the fucked-up part? She does. The whole crowd does.

  “The fight isn’t over,” he shouts, voice ringing through the arena. “Collateral damage still counts. It’s allowed.”

  “The fight is over,” Noura spits, sounding venomous.

  “It isn’t.” His voice carries without effort, cutting clean through the uproar. He gestures toward the arena floor, to the last pitiful Walker dragging itself forward on shredded limbs. Hardly anything left of it, just a twitching carcass with teeth.

  Max saunters toward it. No limp, no flinch. Just slow, deliberate steps that make my stomach knot tighter with every one. He raises his boot—then drives it down, skull caving in with a sickening crunch.

  “There,” Max announces, standing tall, blood dripping from his boot as he turns toward the council. “Now it’s over.”

  Silence cracks—then shatters.

  The audience erupts. Absolutely fucking delirious. Stomping, screaming, chanting his name until the stone itself rattles beneath us.

  Max. Max. Max.

  That fucker spreads his arms wide, chest bare, grinning like a mad god standing in the wreckage of his altar.

  And I can only stare, breath caught in my throat.

  He’s absolutely terrifying.

  He’s everything I should fear

  And he’s everything I can’t stop wanting.

  Chapter nine

  Kieran

  It takes forever to get out of the arena. The crowd’s too thick, everyone jostling, buzzing like they just watched the best bloodsport of their lives. Which, technically, they did.

  When we finally break outside, Sami and I end up by the cliffs while Tass talks with Commander Roe a little ways back, asking if they’ve released Max already.

  We can’t find him.

  He should’ve been out here first, but of course he’s not. He’s vanished like fucking smoke.

  My chest tightens with something I don’t want to call panic. He’s hurt, dammit. They tortured him. And him being the stubborn ass he is, I know he won’t drag himself to Medical.

  I rub my face, trying to shove down the gnawing edge in my gut.

  “Shit. Where do you guys even live?” I snap harsher than I intended when Tass comes our way. But fuck, I should know that already, right? After all this time, I don’t have a clue where he lives, what he does to unwind, what he looks like when he’s not bleeding in front of a crowd, when he’s not in uniform. What he is, who he is, when he’s just Max.

  “Easy there, loverboy.” Tass can’t even hide her grin at my mess. She jerks her chin toward the gate through the wall, since the arena is just outside of it. “Other end of the city. Past the docks and the beach. One of the last apartment buildings at the end of the boulevard.”

  Great. That’s helpful. Totally specific. I roll my fucking eyes.

  “But I think you know he won’t be there,” she adds, “not in his apartment, at least.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She sighs, almost fond. “You’re just as much a tool as he is, you know that?”

  It clicks then, my eyes widening. I know where he is. Of fucking course.

  When I spin to take off, she catches my arm. “Tell him he gets two days off. Roe’s orders.”

  I nod, too wired to answer, and push into the flow of bodies spilling out the gates. On my right the beach stretches dark and endless, but I cut left instead, taking the road that runs parallel to the wall, north toward the resort and its three looming buildings.

  I almost run, don’t bother to look back since I know Tass and Sami are still there, watching, following, making sure I get home safe. Like I can’t fucking take care of myself. I’m not some damsel in distress. I know my way around a knife; I know how to cut a man open if it comes to that. But I’ll tell them to fuck off with the babysitting another time. They’re just following Max’s orders.

  By the time I’m up the stairs, my chest is tight, heart hammering. My hand shakes on the handle, though I’ll never admit that out loud.

  When I open the door, the air hits me like a punch. Familiar. My soap. One of the few things in this whole gods-forsaken city that’s actually mine, paid for with my own earnings. It curls through the room, sharp and fresh, making my skin prickle like it has caught me doing something I shouldn’t.

  The bathroom door’s ajar. The glass divider is still slick, rivulets of condensation sliding down like someone’s just stepped out. A toothbrush that isn’t mine on the counter.

  But Max is nowhere in sight.

  The sliding door to the balcony is open, the night air drifting in together with something tangy. Ashleaf. Sure enough, I finally spot him when I step outside. I let out a deep breath, my eyes closing for a second. He’s here. He’s slouched against the glass beside my flower pots, barefoot, wearing the gray joggers he shoved into my hands weeks ago.

  My chest lurches, not only in relief that he’s here, mostly in one piece, but also because those are my joggers. On him. Nothing else.

  I try not to notice they’re a bit too short, try not to stare at the ankles peeking out, the curve of his feet… bare. And that hits me harder than it should. Max is always in boots, heavy, stomping, indestructible. But barefoot? He looks almost vulnerable. Like someone I could actually reach.

  His black hair’s still damp, shoved back messily, droplets catching on the curve of his neck and sliding slowly, so slowly, down those very broad, very muscular shoulders.

  I swear my skin’s on fucking fire.

  Swallowing the nerves away, I lower myself beside him, careful, like any sudden move might break the moment. The only acknowledgment I get is a whisper of a nudge—his shoulder brushing mine as if by accident—before his gaze lifts right back to the sky.

  He lifts his cigarette for another drag before he stubs it out against the concrete and exhales smoke slowly into the night, a long sigh escaping as his head tilts back.

  Finally, finally, his eyes cut toward me.

  For a breath we just look at each other. His gaze heavy, unreadable. And mine stuck on the bruise swelling dark around his eye, on the raw mark at his neck where teeth broke skin.

  “You’re bleeding,” I say after a beat of silence, because I can’t say you’re alive without falling apart.

  The corner of his mouth pulls up, almost bored. “It’s really not that bad.”

  Maybe he thinks the act still works, that lazy shrug, that careless tone. Like I’ll buy it. Like I don’t notice the shadows carved deep under his eyes, or how his shoulders sag as soon as he thinks no one’s watching.

  He thinks I don’t see him. But I fucking do.

  Despite everything, I should fear him, like every person on this island who has some sense does. Shit, the fight I just witnessed should’ve been a big ass warning sign.

  A warning to stay far away from him.

  He instills more fear and horror in these people than the damn zombies. He’s the nightmare parents tell their children about, the monster lurking beneath every shattered dream on this forsaken island.

  But I don’t fear him.

  Oh, how I fucking don’t.

  In the nothingness, the wasteland, in the emptiness that makes me me, there’s this tiny flicker. A spark of something. A shimmer in the dark that glows stubbornly brighter, refusing to snuff out, refusing to let me end it. It scares me more than he ever could, this fragile little thing that feels dangerously like desire, or maybe even hope for a better life.

  That spark has a name.

  That spark is called Max.

  He looks at me then, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. Like he sees all my cracks, all my jagged edges, all the shit I try to bury… and decides to stay, anyway.

  And I want him to see it. All of me. Can’t push it down even if I wanted to.

  “I was scared for you today.” The words come out in a broken whisper.

  He huffs, looks forward again, to the wall only a shadow against the star-strewn night. “Don’t be. Nine is easy to handle. I think when I get to fifteen or so, I should get worried.”

  “Do I need to stitch it?” I ask, my voice still catching.

  A sigh. “I’m fine.”

  “But?”

  “But we’re going to start training tomorrow.”

  I frown, not sure where this is coming from or what kind of training he even means.

  “I just spent six days wondering, stewing, obsessing if those braindead idiots from the bar went after you while I was gone. I’d have fared better if I knew you could properly defend yourself.”

  My fucking heart.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24