Page 114 of The Beast Who Begged Me

At least eight guards are herding a man toward the empty cell beside ours. One of them says something in Russian and the others laugh.

“Do good tonight, too,” he adds in English. “I put a lot on you to win.”

Whoever he’s talking to doesn’t answer. He ducks through the doorway of the neighboring cell, and I get my first proper look at him. He’s enormous. Maybe even bigger than Dami, made up of thick muscle and scarred flesh, with tattoos all over. All over, even his face and bald head. His ears are little more than ridged scars where they’ve been cut away.

And he’s completely naked, which only serves to make him more terrifying.

One of the guards points at us with a grin and says something in Russian. The man chuckles and nods, looking us over from head to toe with an expression that makes my skin crawl. I don’t need to speak Russian to know the words that just passed between them.

The guards lock him in and leave. He comes to the bars that separate us, curling his huge hands around them. Jesse edges closer to me. The Russian notices and makes a kissing noise at him.

“Pretty,” he says pleasantly. “I will enjoy you.” Jesse makes a noise of disgust. The Russian’s remaining teeth show. “You will enjoy me, too.”

“Don’t talk to him,” I say coldly.

His eyes snap to mine. For a moment, the smile disappears completely. Then he laughs, a deep, ugly sound that makes Jesse flinch beside me. “You think you are brave?”

“No,” I say. “I’m terrified.”

That seems to amuse him even more. “You will die tonight,” he says, and goes back to sit on the ledge in his cell, though he keeps watching us. Sammy looks down at his hands, the ones I’ve just been teaching him to use, and slowly closes them into fists.

Before we can say anything, the guards return. One points a gun through the bars while another unlocks our door and pulls a thick hose inside. “Strip.”

Jesse makes a small, strangled noise. Sammy looks at me, and I look at the hose. “Apparently,” I say, “we’re getting the full spa treatment.”

The guard doesn’t find that funny. He jerks his head toward our clothes, and this time there’s no point arguing. We strip.

Water slams into me hard enough to knock me sideways. I gasp and throw up an arm to protect my face. It runs over my hair and down my back, freezing cold, washing across the concrete toward a drain beneath the sink.

They hose Jesse next. “Jesus Christ!”

“Stand still,” the guard snaps.

“I am standing still!”

He stumbles across the cell, and the spray catches Sammy and me as the guard follows him with the hose.

At last, the hose cuts off. They throw three towels at us, and once we’re dried off, they pass over three scraps of sheer material. I stare at them, remembering these from the Obelisk. This is what they wanted to dress me in before Daniel King told them to use the gold dust instead: a short toga.

Only they’re not really togas. They’re designed to cover the body without actually concealing anything.

“This is a joke, right?” Sammy mutters.

“Put it on,” I whisper back. Something is better than nothing, but the fabric clings to my still-damp skin, doing nothing to warm me.

The guards throw shields and swords in through the bars. Sammy grabs up a sword, almost hopefully, and then gives a bitter smile. I pick one up too and immediately understand.

They’re made of a light wood, painted to look like bronze, battered and authentic.

“They’re not even giving us real weapons?” Jesse gasps.

Sammy takes one of the shields. “Why would they? We’re not supposed to win.”

The guard at the door just laughs and slams it shut, locking us in. Next door, the Russian watches Jesse trying to arrange the fabric over himself, and smiles.

Footsteps approach, and I expect more guards. Instead, Daniel King appears at the end of the corridor with another man beside him. “I know you have a new favorite,” King is saying. “That recent acquisition Yevgeny’s been trying out. But you really should bet on Volkov tonight as well. As I said, I have something very special planned.”

For one stupid second, I don’t recognize the man King is talking to. Then he turns his green eyes to me, and I know that elegant, pale face, framed by long black hair.