9. Sawyer
SAWYER
The “arena” is not at all what I expect.
Luna’s arm locks around mine as we push toward a circle of sand, weaving through spectators until we reach the edge. I nudge the ring with my shoe and scan the tiny grains like they’re hiding blades. But no. It’s a sandbox.
A ridiculous one—circled by a clash of opposites. Cultivators in yellow, light blue, pink, even orange. Little girls twirling until their deep green skirts flare. Seraphs in white with bowed heads. Keepers standing stiff, arms crossed, eyes bruised with exhaustion and not a single fucking smile.
No sign of the fifth class, the Dregs.
You’d think a crowd this different would split apart on instinct, but they don’t. It’s light mingling with shadow—smiles beside stone faces, laughter against quiet frowns.
“What is this?” Luna whispers to me.
I open my mouth, but draw my eyes to a hole in the crowd as cheers slam between both my ears. Arms raise and hands slap together as Wilcox trudges through the hole. His eyes dance around the cheering crowd as if looking for a cue.
Another hole opens up on the opposite side of the ring, and a barechested Thorne struts through. No smile. No reaction to the cheers, unlike Wilcox whose lips twitch, his shoulders pulling back as the crowd begins to chant “one of us” (I swear to God).
I press my mouth to Luna’s ear just as Wilcox yanks off his shirt and twirls it above his head like a fucking dancing monkey.
“It’s an initiation fight,” I say, pretty sure I get the gist. “If the man on the left wins, he’s made a member.”
“And if he loses?”
If he loses…
What does happen if he loses?
“He gets an ass kicking and thrown out of the compound.”
Her eyes flick between Wilcox and me. Hope doesn’t shine in her eyes—more like skepticism—but I can read her mind anyway.
“I wish it was that simple for you…”
“Do you?” she whispers. A challenge I accept with the saddest of smiles.
She faces the center, her back flat, chin high even as breaths saw through her nostrils at a quickened pace.
Brave … but scared. Searching for wolves along the ring while I stand next to her dressed as a sheep.
A disguise that would play off perfectly if the Shadow Sanctum’s members weren’t obviously afraid of me.
Beside us, a Cultivator slowly inches away, flamboyantly golden bracelets jingling as he moves—head down, back hunched. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals more empty space. There must be three hundred people squashed together, but those surrounding us are social distancing.
“Relax,” I whisper to Luna. Unlocking from her arm, I reach around her shoulder and pull her into me. “Most of the people here are more afraid of you than you are of them.”
I don’t know if she buys that, but she leans into me as if I’m the lesser of two evils. It’s a start.
Wilcox roars, beating his chest like an ape, riling up the crowd even more. Meanwhile, Thorne stands tall and still with his clenched fists at his side. All business. Waiting for something—or someone—to tell him what to do next. Such a good boy.
“Ready for the show?”
The curl in my lip releases as I turn to Zephyr. She bumps my hip and settles in close—really close. She gathers her hair over one shoulder. Pulls her lips into a flirtatious smile. Gives me a wink.
To say there’s potential here would be a massive understatement. There is literally nothing in this world as easily enjoyable as a gullible blonde with a bad boy kink.
“Yeah,” I drawl. As though watching two men behave like rabid animals fighting over a half-chewed rabbit is anything more than barbaric. “You?”
My attention cracks as Luna leans even harder against me, not quite clutching me but close. I don’t catch Zephyr’s response.
My throat clears as I turn toward Luna and whisper into her ear. “We’ll leave as soon as this is over. I promise.”
She doesn’t respond. She’s too busy looking around like she’s searching for an escape route. At some point—when her fear has thinned and her adrenaline picks up—she’ll try to run. Everyone does.
But now is not the time.
Pinching Luna’s chin, I turn her to look at me. Her irises toggle between fire and ice as the sun glints off her crystal eyes, red flickering with the lightest shade of blue. For the first time, my mind doesn’t stumble.
“As long as you’re with me, no one will hurt you.” I say, arching my thumb along her chin.
Her jaw clenches, not with anger but with nerves, the hollow of her throat betraying her swallow. And there’s… nothing I can do. I see the faces of a hundred different girls I’ve eased through discomfort not unlike this, but it’s different when I have no real control.
Zephyr pulls my attention back to her when her delicate fingers reach into my collar and tug at the leather permanently tied around my neck.
“What’s this?”
I pull the necklace from my shirt and hold up the single shell—a memento from my island. Among a thousand grooved chunks of calcium carbonate, this is the one that caught Annie’s eye. Dull, cracked, objectively ugly.
“Hmm,” Zephyr’s lips pucker and twist to one side “You can look good in anything, can’t you?”
“Zephyr!”
Aurelius’s voice tugs my ear in a half turn. Zephyr doesn’t budge. She waits for him to force his way through the crowd and stand behind us, his mouth dipping between our shoulders.
“Give me the news,” he orders.
The shell thumps against my chest as she releases it. Her cheerful face smooths into a blank mask. “Boy.”
Aurelius’s heavy sigh warms the curve of my ear. I angle to listen close but neither of the pair say another word.
Stepping around us, Aurelius goes to the center of the ring and silences the crowd with a sweep of his hands—a composer cutting off an orchestra. He announces the participants and begins a speech that my mind muffles, eyes locked on Zephyr.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper.
Her eyes flick to me. She flips her hair off her shoulder, as if suddenly disgusted with each silky strand. “Nothing… All is as it’s supposed to be.”
“What was he asking you?”
Instead of responding, she leans the slightest bit forward to eye the girl. Then she straightens her spine and cups her wrist.
“In short, my brothers, sisters, new friends,” Aurelius says, voice raising higher as he claps his hands together. His sweeping eyes find me and pause. “Let us welcome our newest initiate into our home. Let us celebrate his courage. Let us embrace him for his honor.”
“For his honor,” the crowd chants in unison—cheerfully creepy. Goosebumps pebble the arm still wrapped around Luna.
I wonder what she thinks of all this.
Aurelius raises his hands to the sky, eyes closing.
“I always enjoy these fights,” Zephyr murmurs. “I think you will too.”
Cryptic. Creepy. Just as creepy as the chants. I turn my head to her only to snap back to the arena at the sound of a growl. Thorne’s growl. Aurelius’s hands drop to signal the fight, and Thorne’s linebacker body shoves forward with a lunge.
Wilcox is amped from the crowd’s encouragement.
He shuffles with his fists raised, eyes wide and alert, hairy chest pumping with each grunt.
He’s a big dude—a survivalist nut who’s spent half his life training for an apocalypse.
Training for this moment right here, surrounded by onlookers cheering his name, the millions in cash no doubt lost in his mind.
This is raw, primal, for glory. While Thorne is merely a sexually repressed rageful tool Aurelius pulls out when he needs a show.
I expect a good fight.
But that isn’t what I get.
Breath traps in the clutches of my gut as Thorne catches Wilcox in a scramble, skull crushing skull. Wilcox stumbles and falls flat on his back—feet tipped to the side, open palms limp. Unmoving.
“Get up,” I say under my breath. My arm slips from the girl's shoulder as I lean forward.
Get the fuck up.
He lays completely still until Thorne’s boot connects with Wilcox’s jaw. His head whips as blood sprays, body cringing away. He tries to get up on his elbow but sinks back to the sand.
My hands lift to my ears as two little girls a few yards away screech—with glee, at the tops of their lungs, They jump up and down with shaking fists while the rest of the crowd goes wild, people whistling, clapping, cheering, shouts ringing out for Thorne.
Thorne, who drops to the ground, jabs an elbow into Wilcox’s kidney once, twice, six times while Wilcox bellows.
No one is disappointed.
Except for me. Possibly Luna. It’s a toss up which one of us is more horrified when Thorne calmly unlaces my partner’s boots.
He pulls them off, then the socks, one hand cinched around Wilcox’s ankle as he tries to get away.
Wilcox kicks at Thorne’s face—a mistake he promptly pays for as his ankle snaps, the crack sounding over the roars.
I cringe, pull back, glue my hands to my sides. He finds me in the crowd, wide eyes desperate. “Help me!” he screams. “Sawyer, hel—”
A screech so shrill I feel it in every hair that raises on my arms. I break from Wilcox’s eyes to stare at his foot cinched in Thorne’s hand, pinky toe hanging at an odd angle.
The next toe joins the first when Thorne snaps it with a single, smooth motion. He moves on before Wilcox’s screams can so much as falter—high pitched, terrifying, a blade sawing a mouse in half.
The pain is so vivid, my toes curl inside my shoes, and my hand flinches toward my face. Like a ten-year-old watching a horror movie. When Thorne makes it to the big toe, Luna gasps.
“Oh my God,” she squeaks with a hand covering her mouth.
Thorne pulls so hard, bone juts through skin and blood squirts onto his tribal painted face.
My stomach lurches. I hunch an inch, hand curling around my gut while I fight every bodily reaction appropriate.
I tell myself it’s for Luna’s benefit—to be a calm within the chaos—but not a single person around is panicked. There is no chaos.
This was planned.
Aurelius wanders behind me. Warm, sour breath curls around my ear. “How are things, Sawyer Hansley?”