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Xero’s face is a mask of madness, streaked with tears and blood. When our eyes meet, his features twist into a rictus of unbridled hatred.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
AMETHYST
All plans to stab my way to freedom vanish when Xero charges across the room—not toward Locke or the sexual predators. But toward me.
His hair flies in all directions like a bloody halo. His face is red with rage, with veins protruding from his brow. The muscles in his neck expand like the hood of a cobra, making him look fresh from an asylum.
My heart leaps into the back of my throat. From the way his eyes still lock on mine like I’m the only other person in existence, it almost looks like he’s about to pull me into his arms… until he pulls a fist.
I dart to the side before the punch lands.
“Xero!” I scream, but my voice fails to reach him through his haze of fury.
He spins, lurches, grabs me by the hair, and the audience erupts into cheers. Realization slaps me in the face, and every drop of blood drains from my head and into my pounding heart.
Xero thinks I’m Dolly.
Using everything I learned from our training sessions, I drop to the floor and twist out of his grip, yanking out dozens of hairs by the root. As Xero advances toward me, I snatch the cleaver and aim it at his chest.
The audience coos.
His gaze swims from side to side, triggering long-forgotten flashbacks of male inmates on psychotic rampages. This time, there’s no small army of men in white to subdue them—just me.
“Xero?” I repeat, my voice trembling.
I’m so accustomed to sparring with Xero and the others that his movements are clumsy in comparison. I dodge to the side, narrowly avoiding a right hook. A rush of air passes just above my head, signaling the strength behind his blow.
The cheers of the audience grow louder, spurring him on. I lunge to the side, narrowly missing another punch. If I don’t pull him out of this drug-induced frenzy, he’ll continue to attack me, thinking I’m Dolly.
“Xero, it’s Amethyst!” I yell over the chaos.
He lurches forward, his hand shooting out to grab my throat. I twist to the side, his fingers grazing my shoulder.
“Xero Greaves, snap out of it!”
His other hand catches my wrist, making pain explode through my arm as he yanks me into his chest. His heart beats so hard, its reverberations echo through my back. I twist and turn, trying to wrench free, but his grip is iron.
As his free hand wraps around my throat, desperation drives me to kick backward. My foot connects with his shin, but he barely flinches. I run through all the moves we practiced, trying to find one that won’t hurt Xero, but as he cuts off my air, I hurl my bodyweight forward, throwing him off-balance.
Xero tumbles forward, stopping himself before he falls. He pivots and swings his fist again, forcing me to duck.
The audience roars with laughter.
I walk backward, raising the cleaver like a shield, but Xero advances on me with the determination of a tiger. I’m trapped in a demented dilemma. The only man capable of saving me thinks I’m a woman he wants dead. If I attack him in self-defense, Delta and a dozen other predators are waiting in line for my demise. If Xero kills me in a drug-fueled rage, it will break his spirit and Delta wins.
“Xero, please listen to me!” I scream, my voice raw.
His arm strikes out like a rattlesnake and grabs the wrist of the hand holding the cleaver.
I could punch him, but that would only confirm in his mind that I’m an enemy. I could break free of this hold, but he’ll continue chasing me until he passes out. Then we’ll both be vulnerable.
Maybe the only weapon I have is my surrender.
Fingers clenching around my wrist, he walks me backward until my hamstrings meet the edge of the mattress. His free hand wraps around my throat and squeezes.
“Xero,” I rasp. “It’s Amethyst. Your little ghost.”
