Hungry for it.
And he’d take his fill wherever and whenever he could. He’d seek it out if he had to. Like now.
The Collector supposed this was especially satisfying given that the kid who was tied up and being beaten by him was handsome and strong, everything all those long-ago bullies had been. The ones he’d wanted to be. Maybe even the ones he’d wanted to fuck, though that might be going out on a limb.
The Collector zoomed in on Evan’s face, watching carefully. He could obviously take pain. He appeared completely zoned out. Interesting. It took some practice to achieve that. He’d bet the boy was used to being hit. Maybe not often, but enough that he knew how to take it without flinching. The Collector tucked that away. He’d use it at the right moment. He’d know when—and if—that was.
He glanced down at the picture reduced in size near the bottom. The girl lay curled on her side in the cage, her eyes closed, hands tucked between her knees. She’d rolled into a small ball, and though it almost appeared she was sleeping, the Collector knew very well she was not. He was quickly learning her tells, each and every one—the ones she was aware of and the ones she was not. Her hair streamed over one shoulder, and he could see one delicate ear. The picture above showed the boy taking a strong blow to his gut, paying the price for the fact that her pretty little ear was currently still attached to her head.
The Collector had entered a chat room connected to the sport a few days before. He hadn’t participated in the conversation, but he’d listened in. He’d heard chatter about past games, the players reminiscing about other contestants who had opted to see each other chopped to bits. Apparently, once it got started, it was gory indeed, each unwilling to have mercy on the other. The Collector wasn’t surprised in the least by this information. Even the most civilized could become savage under the right circumstances. And sometimes, like now, the most unlikely contestants—two people with a bone to pick with the other, enemies, one might say—took pain on themselves rather than hand it off to the other. Fascinating.
He rubbed his thumb over the chocolate-brown wristband of his watch. It was a Patek Philippe Reference 530 time-only watch. He’d found it at an auction house a year ago for close to a half million dollars. He supposed, now that he thought about it, he was no stranger to making bets, after all. But he’d never bet before when his chances of winning weren’t all but guaranteed. This situation . . . it most definitely added an edge. Did it mean he was one of them? No. His motives were different. Very different. He glanced down at his prized possession. He loved it because it was deceptively simplistic. All the best things were, to his mind. He wasn’t a man who appreciated bells and whistles. Showy. Unnecessary. He’d heard the watch he was wearing called a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He liked that. Yes, he liked that very much.
The skinny beak-nosed man was done beating on the boy. He looked exhilarated as he pumped his sticklike arms in the air in triumph. The boy’s head hung limply as blood dripped from his lip and a cut on his cheek. He’d receive no medical care, the same way he’d have received no medical care had his fingers been sawed off. Things that might bring medical relief were off the table of items that players could gift the contestants, as was outright weaponry and a short list of other objects. There was nothing anyone could do to ease his pain. He’d have to live with his injuries, at least as long as he lasted.
The Collector wondered if he’d look at that rope differently when he was thrown back in his cage. But even as he thought it, his lips curved in a smile. Something told him the boy would not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“How do you feel?” Noelle asked softly, her face pressed between the bars.
His eyes flickered, and he became aware of the pain, first the screaming of his ribs, then the ache in his eye, the one that had just begun healing and was now swollen shut once again. His other eye hadn’t fared much better, but at least he could open it a slit. His head pounded, and his jaw hurt. He brought his hand to his mouth, assessing his teeth. “Like I was tied up and beaten half to death,” he finally rasped.
Her face was blurry, and he blinked to bring it into focus, sorry he had once he saw her bleak expression. She looked like she’d been crying. Neither of them could afford that. It was a waste of bodily fluids. Of course it didn’t help that he’d lost what looked like a pint of blood. “I don’t think my ribs are broken, though,” he said, as much to her as to himself, pulling his body up and grimacing as he leaned against the bars, scooting over so his spine was between two of them rather than being supported by one. “The guy who did this weighed all of ninety pounds soaking wet. It’s probably why I’m not worse off than I am,” he said, attempting to make her smile. His effort failed. Just like the asshole who’d used Noelle, his guy had donned a mask, so the top of his face was unrecognizable. Coward. All fucking cowards.