Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 91631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
"No. But I thought if they could get away, we could, too. We could watch what they did."
"Well, yes and no." She draws circles on my chest, thinking. "They did get away, it seems, but we can't do what they did. They're watching the hangar even more closely now than ever before. Not that it matters, because I don't know how to fly a ship. Do you?"
Disappointment crushes my hopes. "Oh. No. All I know is how to fight."
"We'll just have to figure something else out," Mina says firmly.
"As long as we're together." I hold her tight, and I'm glad of my missing claws, because it lets me touch her freely.
Mina pauses and looks up at me. "Actually, that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about, Crulden." Her strange, small face is so serious. "If you get the opportunity to leave, you take it. Don't worry about me. My life's not in danger like yours is."
What is she saying? "I'm not going anywhere without you."
She grabs a handful of my chest hair and pulls, frowning. Her dark brows are one angry line. "You're not listening to me. I'm not in danger. I'm like a pet he doesn't want, but he can't sell me off and he won't get rid of me. I'm fine. It's you that's in danger. If you get a chance to leave, I don't want you to even think about me, okay? I want you to go. Promise me." When I say nothing, she tugs harder. "Promise me."
"No." I'm not leaving her behind. "We go together or not at all."
"You can't escape if you're dead," she mutters, and then flicks the blankets back, letting in the cold air.
We're done talking, it seems.
29
Two Weeks Later
MINA
I watch from my spot on the bed while Crulden is fitted for an arena costume. An ooli seamstress—one of the many slaves—trembles as she works on fitting the buckles to Crulden's leather kilt. It's nothing but straps and metal, the kilt, belted at the waist and covered in sharp, alarming objects that they'll probably want him to use against someone. Spikes dangle off of each section, and to me it looks more like he's wearing a cat-o'-nine tails instead of an actual costume. I guess that's the point, but I don't like it.
If Crulden can use that stuff, someone can use it against him.
His hands are on his hips and he growls when the female pulls out another spike-laden strap and begins to sew it on to the front.
"Can you not?" I call out, hugging the pillow on the bed to my chest. "She's just trying to do her job."
I know he's bothered by the fact that someone else is touching him, but it has to be done. "I can't make your costume," I point out. "And the sooner you let her finish, the sooner she can go."
Crulden just scowls, his tail twitching with impatience.
I don't blame him. Everything feels like a lesson in patience lately. It's been over two weeks since they maimed him, and his scarred hand and shoulder have healed up nicely, even if I do feel sick to my stomach every time I see them, knowing I caused that pain. We're a week out from the championship, and Crulden will be leaving in five days to travel to some remote planet where all the gladiators are being taken for the big spectacle. That means the trainers are pushing them harder than ever, the scientist and Lord Sir are both in our faces, and my anxiety is through the damn roof.
I'm a mess as the championship approaches. Crulden takes it calmly, but all I can think about is that he's not that first Crulden. He's dangerous, but he's not crazy-insane-rabid Crulden, and I worry he's going to die. I look for ways to escape, harder than I ever have before. I take long, winding routes to the kitchen. I make up chores I'm running for Crulden—new clothes, a snack, fresh blankets—and scour the compound looking for ways we can escape.
Ever since the break-in, though, there's nothing. There are more clone guards posted than ever before, and I never see an opportunity. I'm starting to feel like my big, bragging promise to Crulden was nothing more than hot air and I'm going to get him killed.
Watching him get fitted for his arena costume just stresses me out even more. I hug the pillow closer, wishing I could lash out like he did before. We don't want to be separated, though, so we've both been on our best behavior. I'm constantly at Crulden's side—when I'm not looking for a way for us to escape—and the longer I'm with him, the more upset I become.
I've been so careful the entire time I've been captive. It's been, what, three or four years now since I was stolen from Earth? It's hard to say because all of my days ran together before Crulden came. It was always the same cycle of bullshit—wake up, do chores, keep your nose clean and stay out of sight. There was no room for friendship, or attachment, especially as a slave with no control over my life. Now, though, I've grown attached.