Page 122 of Inferno

I pause as screams rip through the room, and I look to my left.

Panic girl is pale as hell looking at the mess she’s created on her thigh.

“You haven’t finished,” her guard says with annoyance.

The guard, a towering figure with hands clasped tightly in front of him, looms over her, and I feel a nervous lump form in my throat.

“I can’t do it anymore. Please. No more. It looks atrocious, and it hurts so bad.”

I lean over discreetly and take a look.

God damn.

It’s just a bunch of scattered lines and she cut deep too.

A heaving sob racks her body and tears stream down her face.

“The blood. Make it stop,” she wails frantically.

I can see the annoyance in the guards’ eyes. He glances at me, and I look away.

Frantically wiping the blood from her skin, she smears it, making a bigger mess as she watches it drip from her hands.

Too deep. Too messy. I shake my head.

“Contestant four, your time in the games has ended, and your fate is sealed. Please follow your guard out of the room,” the robotic voice tells us, and the other girls gasp.

I don’t flinch. I just watch.

I’m more pissed off that she didn’t make it through. The other three girls are tougher than her.

And these games aren’t easy. My weakness is the pleasure, for the rest of them it’s the pain.

Depending on the next rooms, I could be screwed.

The guard slips her blindfold back on and I look away as she’s taken through the door back into the first room.

Clever, killing them in the ice room.

It’s not long before the gunshot rings out. You can feel the fear in this room. It’s palpable.

“Congratulations. Please stay seated. Our doctor will fix you up now. Please enjoy some light refreshments before the next game. You’ll need the energy.”

A cold dread grips my stomach as the guard returns, the clinking of the bottles and rustling of the protein bar wrappers echoing in the silence.

This new guard, though shorter than mine, is powerfully built. His black uniform and mask adds to his imposing presence. His muscular figure fills out the long-sleeved black shirt, the material clinging tightly, revealing the definition of his muscles.

As I take the bar, I look up at him, his face a mask of indifference.

His uniquely pale gray eyes held a distant, almost vacant stare, revealing little of what was within. I’ve felt this unease before.

“How do I know it’s not poisoned?” I ask, arching my brow.

He rolls his eyes, his body language shifting as he leans in, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Drugging would be a simple escape for you.” I swear there’s a twinge of Irish as he speaks. Almost as if he’s hiding it beneath the American accent.

He dishes out the rest of the bottles and snacks before returning to me with sterilizer fluid and a cloth. My mind races—did I hear Irish?

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