This is how things work here.
My pulse is steady, my breathing controlled, but my mind is running. Options. Exits. Who might turn on who.
Sinclair’s fingers press against my hip, a reminder of just how outnumbered I am.
I have one shot at this.
I just need to figure out when to take it.
Sinclair glances at his cards and tosses down two. Once he’s dealt the next two, he sets them down. His hand slides to my waist. Slow. Deliberate.
Then he draws my knife from its sheath and sets it on the table.
Shit.
One less option.
His hands return, and this time, he doesn’t hesitate.
He grips the hem of my shirt and drags it upward, over my ribs, over my shoulders.
I don’t resist.
They want that.
They’d enjoy it. They’re waiting for it. Just one excuse to take this from a game to something worse.
The fabric drops to the floor, and I force myself to breathe.
Someone across the room lets out a low whistle.
“Those look even better in person.”
Laughter. Low, cruel.
“Zachs looked at her like he’d pay to nail it,” another guard says, amused.
“Shit, I’d pay to watch what that psycho did with a woman,” the man across from Sinclair adds, tossing a card onto the table.
A voice from the monitors laughs. Unbothered. Distracted.
“He’d probably chop her up into little bits and make stew,” he says, shaking his head. “Fucking nut job.” Then, like it’s an afterthought, he turns back to the screens. “Wilkes is still kicking. Dodson is down. Who had Dodson?”
A round of groans and cursing follows, but the man who bet on Wilkes’ head is the loudest.
“Fucking Wilkes,” he snarls. “I’ll pay one of you to go take him out. Double if you get Dax.”
The room doesn’t stop.
No one flinches at the casual offer of assassination.
It’s just another wager.
Another man, one of the quieter ones, turns his focus to me. Steady. Intense.
“You saw what she did with Dax in the block,” he murmurs, low enough that it’s meant to dig under my skin. “She’d like it if Zachs pulled out his psycho on her.”
I meet his stare and don’t blink.