Rubbing my eyes, I shuffle my feet across my carpeted living room, and laminated dining room to come to a halt in my kitchen doorway. My tired eyes become completely alert along with my fuzzy brain as I rake in the sight of the 6’2” muscular work of art whisking a bowl of eggs at my kitchen island. Shirtless, I might add. He looks right at home, humming to himself while his muscles flex with every minute movement he makes. His black sweatpants hang low on his hips, but from here, the island is blocking my view of the goods I was hoping to ogle. However, I can't help the pang of guilt I feel when I take in the ugly knife wound to his abdomen. The bruising around the wound looks ghastly and the edges don't look as healthy as they should for over a month's worth of healing, but deadly poisons will do that to you. Despite that, he looks right at home. The sun streaming in through the Venetian blinds and dancing across his muscular frame, putting a spotlight on his many tattoos. I find my

I’m startled awake by the sound of a ringing phone. As my body jolts to life – much to my surprise – so does the body of Silas, who happens to be tangled beneath me. Our heads collide as he jolts up in response to the phone, and with a cry and a groan, we both clutch our heads. In a hurry to answer his phone, Silas doesn’t realise the position we’re in, and rolls over, knocking me to the ground with a thud. “Hey!” I shout, as I rub my now aching head. “Shit, sorry,” he says as he grabs his phone off the coffee table and answers it. I tune out his conversation as I slowly get up and rub my ass. Just another bruise I can add to the wounded canvas that has become my body. I make my way to the kitchen to make some tea as I try to recall how we ended up in the position we found ourselves in. We’ve spent the last few days going over everything from the very beginning, analysing any detail we might have missed even down to when we both arrived in Moscow and who we spoke to when we arrived

“Master of Ceremonies,” I say in disbelief, keeping the wobble out of my voice rather expertly, I must say. “Aconite,” he says with a pleased smile, “So glad you remember me. I definitely remember you,” he says with a knowing smile. Horrific images of mutilated bodies screaming and begging for their lives and the smell of blood and burning flesh comes flooding back as my mind replays the last Tournament I competed in. I push the memories back and focus on the here and now and the man in front of me. The Master of Ceremonies – since we don’t know his real name – is as deadly as he is charming. He’s 6’2” and appears to be in his thirties with short blonde combed-over hair with blonde highlights, golden glowing skin with a large jaw covered in dark blonde stubble that is starting to show signs of age. His eyes shine with mirth, but there is a danger in their depths that I have witnessed firsthand is far from idle. His eyes are like two deep blue warning signs flashing with the pain the

I look up at the beautiful sand-coloured 5-story apartment building, the exterior lined with picturesque wrought iron balconies dripping on stone terraces, decorated with lush plants and just big enough to allow for a single person to step out and admire the view. I wish my apartment building looked as beautiful as this. “It’s beautiful,” Silas remarks with a warm smile. I nod in agreement, “I wish my apartment building was this lovely.” “I could never live in an apartment; I don't know how you do it.” “You live in a house?” I ask quizzically. “Family estate in Moldova.” I smirk, “That your way of saying you still live at home?” “Got a problem with that?” He says, raising his eyebrow, daring me to say something. I raise my hands in surrender as I let out a chuckle, “No problems here. If it weren’t so smothering at my parents' house I’d probably still live there too.” “What’s so smothering about your parents' place?” He curiously asks as we walk up the front stoop of the build

I pull into an impressively grand château just outside of Paris and drive around a grand fountain in the centre of the driveaway illuminated by small strobe lights that make the water glow and welcome you onto the property. It’s a stunning three-story estate with an incredible number of windows, each illuminated with an exterior light that gives the structure a warm cozy feel to an otherwise ostentatious piece of architecture. Eight large windows line the first story, then nine on the second and seven on the third. Definitely not the ideal location for mayhem and murder, but it is also far enough from a main road that you could scream for hours and never be heard. Parking at the front entrance, I grab my purse and exit the car. Glancing around the property I see no signs of Silas’ car. He will likely park far from the house to ensure the car isn’t spotted, but I’m sure he’ll figure it out. He’s a big boy. With my bag secured over my shoulder, I make my way up the front steps and bang