Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Noelle crawled forward hurriedly, gripping the bars on the front of her crate as he stumbled by, his legs already weak from constant sitting. He couldn’t look at her right then. His body vibrated with fear. We stay whole repeated in his mind, a mantra to give him courage.
But distantly it occurred to him that they’d already begun to be carved up. Noelle was no longer whole. She’d already had something taken from her. And he was all but certain that’s what awaited him too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Collector watched Evan double over as the paunchy man’s fist connected with his midsection. No rape. This time anyway. The predators on the other side of the screens had so many reasons for renting the prey. The short man with a curved spine and toothpick legs swung again, hitting Evan in the jaw as Evan’s head whipped back, spittle spraying in the air.
Yes, the motivations could be varied, but some—like the one he was watching—were so predictable, so boringly trite.
Despite the older man’s success (and he had to be successful to afford this sport), inside he was still the ugly, gawky kid who’d once been pushed into lockers. And he’d never moved on. He likely wore a three-piece suit most days, commanded some boardroom in a luxury zip code, and dined in the finest restaurants. In that life, he didn’t need a mask to hide his face. The Collector would bet he had a penchant for young prostitutes and especially enjoyed hurting and humiliating them. Because now that he’d amassed power, he was bent on revenge.
Hungry for it.
And he’d take his fill wherever and whenever he could. He’d seek it out if he had to. Like now.
The Collector supposed this was especially satisfying given that the kid who was tied up and being beaten by him was handsome and strong, everything all those long-ago bullies had been. The ones he’d wanted to be. Maybe even the ones he’d wanted to fuck, though that might be going out on a limb.
The Collector zoomed in on Evan’s face, watching carefully. He could obviously take pain. He appeared completely zoned out. Interesting. It took some practice to achieve that. He’d bet the boy was used to being hit. Maybe not often, but enough that he knew how to take it without flinching. The Collector tucked that away. He’d use it at the right moment. He’d know when—and if—that was.
He glanced down at the picture reduced in size near the bottom. The girl lay curled on her side in the cage, her eyes closed, hands tucked between her knees. She’d rolled into a small ball, and though it almost appeared she was sleeping, the Collector knew very well she was not. He was quickly learning her tells, each and every one—the ones she was aware of and the ones she was not. Her hair streamed over one shoulder, and he could see one delicate ear. The picture above showed the boy taking a strong blow to his gut, paying the price for the fact that her pretty little ear was currently still attached to her head.
The Collector had entered a chat room connected to the sport a few days before. He hadn’t participated in the conversation, but he’d listened in. He’d heard chatter about past games, the players reminiscing about other contestants who had opted to see each other chopped to bits. Apparently, once it got started, it was gory indeed, each unwilling to have mercy on the other. The Collector wasn’t surprised in the least by this information. Even the most civilized could become savage under the right circumstances. And sometimes, like now, the most unlikely contestants—two people with a bone to pick with the other, enemies, one might say—took pain on themselves rather than hand it off to the other. Fascinating.
He rubbed his thumb over the chocolate-brown wristband of his watch. It was a Patek Philippe Reference 530 time-only watch. He’d found it at an auction house a year ago for close to a half million dollars. He supposed, now that he thought about it, he was no stranger to making bets, after all. But he’d never bet before when his chances of winning weren’t all but guaranteed. This situation . . . it most definitely added an edge. Did it mean he was one of them? No. His motives were different. Very different. He glanced down at his prized possession. He loved it because it was deceptively simplistic. All the best things were, to his mind. He wasn’t a man who appreciated bells and whistles. Showy. Unnecessary. He’d heard the watch he was wearing called a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He liked that. Yes, he liked that very much.
The skinny beak-nosed man was done beating on the boy. He looked exhilarated as he pumped his sticklike arms in the air in triumph. The boy’s head hung limply as blood dripped from his lip and a cut on his cheek. He’d receive no medical care, the same way he’d have received no medical care had his fingers been sawed off. Things that might bring medical relief were off the table of items that players could gift the contestants, as was outright weaponry and a short list of other objects. There was nothing anyone could do to ease his pain. He’d have to live with his injuries, at least as long as he lasted.