Chapter 2: The Overheard Conversation

POV: Sierra

I finish the arena floor in record time, adrenaline making every movement quicker and more precise. The sooner I'm done, the sooner I can disappear back into the servant quarters.

I dump the bloody water into the drainage grate, hoist the empty bucket, and gather my supplies. The industrial elevator sits fifty yards away, beyond the fighter preparation rooms and through the administrative corridor, which I'm technically not supposed to use at this hour.

But the service elevator takes twenty minutes. This one takes three. I've been pushing boundaries like this for months, committing small infractions that save time while seeing how closely anyone is paying attention. So far, no one has cared that a servant girl uses the fast elevator.

We're furniture. Invisible. Except Knox has been watching me.

The thought sends a chill crawling beneath my skin, but I bury it before it can take root. Paranoia is fear with a story attached, and fear gets servants killed.

Stay sharp. Stay smart. Stay alive.

The administrative corridor is lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the arena from the luxury boxes. During fight nights, security guards and VIP guests crowd this hallway shoulder to shoulder. At three-thirty in the morning, it's deserted, washed in cold blue light spilling from recessed fixtures set into the floor.

My footsteps barely whisper across the polished concrete. Walking without a sound is another skill this place taught me, one that's kept me alive more than once. The bucket is the only thing likely to betray me, so I steady it with both hands to keep it from knocking against my leg.

I'm almost to the elevator. Almost clear. Voices drift through the corridor. Male. Deep. Coming from Knox's private viewing box twenty feet ahead.

Every instinct tells me to turn around, take the long route, and stay far away from whatever is happening behind that door. But my arms ache from carrying the bucket, and the elevator is right there.

Keep walking. Head down. Eyes forward. An invisible servant doing invisible work. It's the only smart choice. I take two more steps. Curiosity wins.

The viewing box door stands slightly ajar, warm light spilling across the hallway in a golden strip. I shouldn't stop.

I do. "The bloodline is confirmed."

The voice belongs to Tristan Locke, Knox's right-hand enforcer. Thirty-five. Brutal. Efficient. The kind of man who would take a bullet for Knox without hesitation and never mention it afterward. His voice is smooth and polished, the sort you'd expect from a lawyer instead of one of the deadliest men in the building.

"Dr. Hayes triple-checked the markers," Tristan says. "There's no question."

"Royal bloodline." Knox says the words like he's waited years to speak them aloud. "Fifteen years. And she's been under my nose the entire time."

Ice drives through my chest, locking every muscle in place. Royal bloodline. Fifteen years. Invisible.

"The timing couldn't be better," Tristan continues. "The championship tournament is already generating record-breaking interest. Position her as the centerpiece, the ultimate underdog, and we'll triple our projected revenue."

"It's more than the spectacle," Knox says. A pause. "The poetry of it. A wolf from the royal bloodline forced to fight for survival in the very arena built on her family's destruction."

Air catches in my throat. The bucket slips from my numb fingers. Metal crashes against concrete with a sharp clang that tears through the corridor like a gunshot.

Silence. Then footsteps. Fast. I snatch up the bucket and run. My shoes hammer across the polished floor, each stride echoing behind me.

The viewing box door slams open. "Stop her!" Knox's voice slices through the corridor. I don't look back. The elevator is ten feet away. Eight. Six. The doors are closed. I hammer the call button with my palm.

Come on. Come on. Come on.

Heavy footsteps thunder closer. "Stop her!" Security. The elevator chimes. The doors begin to slide open. Too slowly. I throw myself inside and stab the button for the servant level.

The doors start closing. A hand shoots through the narrowing gap. The safety sensor catches. The doors slide back open. Tristan Locke steps inside. My world shrinks to the space between us.

He's well over six feet tall, built by decades of violence rather than a gym. Dark hair slicked neatly back. An immaculate suit untouched by the late hour. Cold gray eyes study me the way a scientist might study something pinned beneath glass.

"Miss Daniels."

His voice is warm enough to fool anyone who doesn't know him. "Working late?" My mouth is dry. "Just finishing my shift."

"Of course."

He doesn't reach for the control panel. Instead, he stands there watching me. "You know," he says, "it's curious. You've worked here for three years, yet somehow we overlooked a full medical workup. An oversight we'll be correcting tomorrow morning."

Tomorrow morning. Medical workup. They're going to confirm whatever they think they've found.

"I don't understand." Even to my own ears, the confusion sounds convincing. "I'm just a servant. Why would I need a medical exam?"

"We like to be thorough with our employees." His smile never reaches his eyes. "Nothing to worry about. Eight a.m. sharp. Don't be late."

The elevator reaches the administrative level. Tristan steps out, one hand holding the doors apart. "Oh, and Sierra?" I force myself to meet his gaze.

"Mr. Ashford wanted me to remind you that running in the corridors is against facility rules. " Another faint smile. "We wouldn't want you to have an accident."

He releases the door. The elevator closes, sealing me inside. My legs give out, and I slide down the metal wall. Eight a.m. They're going to examine me. Test my blood. Confirm whatever Royal bloodline markers they believe I carry. Then they'll throw me into the arena.

The elevator descends toward the servant levels, carrying me deeper into the bowels of The Crimson Cage, where I've managed to stay hidden for three years.

Not anymore. Knox knows. Tomorrow morning, everyone else will too.