8. Chapter eight #2
“Loyalty can be bought,” Tass answers flatly.
“That should not come cheap.”
She snorts. “And who’s got the deepest purse on this island?”
The name slams into me before she even finishes. Joyeus . Of course. She’s seated smugly on Noura’s other side, lips curling too fucking pleased with herself as Max stands there, waiting for their judgement, arms loose at his sides.
Then Noura rises.
The crowd silences like a switch flipped.
My stomach knots so tight I can barely breathe. Because every inch of me knows—especially after what Tass just told me—this isn’t a fight. It’s a setup.
And Max is the one getting burned.
But he doesn’t cower. He rolls his shoulders again, slow, like he’s just shaking off rain instead of half a dozen fresh injuries. Squares up in the center of the Pit, spine straight, jaw set. Defiance written in every line of him.
He doesn’t look at Noura. Doesn’t even spare her a glance.
No… his head tips just enough, scanning past the crowds, until his gaze locks right where it always does.
On me.
Like he knew exactly where to look, like he didn’t have to search at all. I know we’re somewhere close to their usual spot, but the crowd is big, as is the arena.
Somehow he still finds me like it’s muscle memory.
My chest caves in and everything else fades. The crowd, the Nine, all the questions clawing at me about Roe, about Joyeus, about his past… gone.
All that’s left is him.
He nods once, barely a dip of his chin, like that’s all the reassurance he thinks I’ll need. Like I’ve got this is carved into his bones.
But I see the bruises. The swelling. The blood drying down his side.
And I don’t believe him.
“See? Always staring,” Tass mutters, humor back in her voice.
I don’t reply to her. Don’t even hear the rest of what she says. Don’t register Noura’s sentencing speech either. Tass is right. I can only watch. Watch and pray that he’ll be okay.
And we stay like that. Him staring up at me, me clutching the rail so hard my palms burn, locked in some invisible tether that neither of us breaks.
Until Tass elbows me, muttering something sharp I don’t catch.
Until the gate starts to rattle, iron shrieking under the weight of Walkers slamming against it.
Until Max finally tears his eyes from mine.
It begins. Justice, Ibitha-style. Bloody, merciless, final.
A Watcher next to the council hefts something heavy, then hurls it down into the Pit. The weapon hits dirt with a solid thud, dust kicking up around it.
A spear.
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.