Page 180 of Romancing in Rot

Doyle doesn’t let go. He shakes the man once, like an animal worrying meat off bone, and the wound tears wider. A strip of flesh stretches, snaps, and disappears into Doyle’s mouth. The prisoner’s knees buckle. Blood pours down his chest in a hot sheet, splattering the floor, slicking the tile until the overhead lights shine in it.

The crowd goes wild.

With his chin dripping, Doyle lifts both arms while the prisoner collapses at his feet. The man’s fingers twitch, scraping little lines through his own blood. Then he stops.

Poppy buries her face in my side, and my hand covers the back of her head.

Bryant claps slowly. “A disappointing effort, but an enthusiastic finish.”

Someone laughs.

Doyle spits something onto the tile and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bryant turns toward us.

“Next.”

My heart drops.

Poppy’s head snaps up. “No.”

I crouch in front of her before the guards can grab me, my hands closing around her arms. “Listen to me.”

“No.” Her eyes fill. “Mom, no.”

“Listen.” My voice stays low. Firm. Teacher voice. Mom voice. The voice I use when the world is ending and I need my daughter to believe I can hold up the sky. “I am going to be okay.”

Her mouth trembles.

I lean closer. “Leon is coming.”

I press my forehead to hers for one breath, and then hands grab my shoulders and yank me up.

Poppy screams, “Mom!”

“I love you,” I say, twisting to keep my eyes on her as they drag me into the open court. “Keep your eyes on me if you can. Close them if you need to. Either way, breathe.”

Then I’m shoved into the arena.

My boots slide on blood-slick tile. I catch myself before my leg folds. The crowd blurs around me, all faces and teeth and noise. My head pounds. My cheek throbs from the fight in the woods. My hands are empty.

I turn toward Bryant.

Russ stands beside him, arms still crossed. The bastard won’t look at Poppy now. He looks at me instead, and there is something almost smug tucked into the corner of his mouth. Like this proves something. Like seeing me bloody and trapped makes him right.

My teeth grind together.

Watch close, asshole.

The crowd chants her name as Rhea steps into the circle, bloodshot eyes pinned on me, grief sharpened into hate. There’s a strip of red-soaked cloth tied around one wrist.

Roy’s blood, maybe.

Hard to keep track in the cannibal murder mall.

I glance at the crowd, at Bryant, at Russ standing beside him like a stain, at the guards near Poppy, and at the second-floor railing packed with bodies. Buy time. Stay alive. Make her angry. Make her sloppy.

I roll my shoulders and take a slow breath through my nose. “Come get some.”