Blood Sport

Chapter Twelve

"It'll be weird when you're not here," Reagan offered. "Who will I have to talk to?"

Her stomach churned with discomfort.

Reagan had never really lost anyone. Not that she'd really be losing Jenna. They'd only known each other for two weeks, forced by circumstance. When her Mother kicked the bucket, the blood poisoning had rotted her brain. She'd withered away weeks ago. Besides, she'd never been fully present in the first place.

Reagan wasn't sure how to cope with death.

"They'll replace me," Jenna scoffed. "And I doubt you'll be down here for long anyway."

"Ha, they'll kill me faster to get it over with."

"That's not what I meant."

Reagan's stomach dropped,churning all over again, but she never got the chance to question Jenna any further. The steady marching of the guards' feet was already upon them. Jenna was right. For the first time since Reagan had been put down here, it wasn't her they were coming for.

There were only two guards here for Jenna. Had it been Reagan, there'd have been five-wary of what she could do-unless the General had come to get her himself. But it was common knowledge that Jenna couldn't teleport. Even if she could, her sickness would kill her from the strain of it. To the guards, Jenna didn't pose a threat.

An even weirder feeing hit her as the guards snatched Jenna from her cell.

It wasn't a feeling she was used to—but she knew it so well.

Sadness.

Undeniable sadness—because Jenna had become her friend. A friend. Something she had so few of. For a time, in a strange way, it felt like she'd had a little piece of her Mother back. Disjointed as it may have been.

And now she was gone again.

She was dead either way.

That knowledge should've made it easier.

They dragged Jenna down the halls, never to be seen again.

Reagan peeled her ears, hating that her witch senses won out over those of the vampire. If Jenna had said something, pleaded for her life, offered any final words—anything—then Reagan was none the wiser.

Reagan stared forwards for a long time. Longer than she meant to, contemplating what to do with this feeling. What to convert it to.

The guards were back soon. They walked slower this time, more resigned in their steps now they'd come for her. And as was typical for Reagan, there were more of them. They were dealing with a threat now. The dangerous prisoner. The one none of them knew anything about.

She let them take her to the General's room without putting up a fight. A blank expression fixed itself upon her face.

Inside, she didn't bother with her usual routine. She kept her shoes on and lingered by the door awaiting instruction. She wasn't in the mood to be broken down and interrogated.

They'd left things on a tense note anyway.

His fault.

What kind of mad man offered their blood up to someone they barely knew? Worse, he'd expected her to drink it straight from his vein. Could it get anymore intimate than that?

It had to be a lapse in judgement. The orgasmic atmosphere had gotten to his head, leading to a temporary break in rationality.

An outfit was laid out across his bed. A little black skirt with a white t-shirt, a black waistcoat and a red bow tie. The same clothes the castle staff wore. Reagan trailed her fingers over the uniform. They'd be going through with their plan today. By the time she'd made it to the bed to inspect it, shuffling through the pile, the General had emerged. His presence hung heavy in the room. She felt it without turning.