Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Riot

“They said you were an animal,” he snorts. “I don’t see what’s so scary about you.” He runs a contemptuous look up and down my frame. “Look like some kind of pretty boy pussy, if you ask me.”

I don’t bother responding to the taunt. I’ve heard them all.

“I’m sorry that I have to do this.” I lock eyes with the mountain of a man looming in front of me. He’s big. They always are.

“You’re sorry?” He snorts, his breath hot on my face. He’s close enough for the bristles of his tactical beard to brush my jaw when he leans in and sneers, “You’re gonna be sorry, boy. Sorry about what I’m about to do to you.”

I say nothing. There’s no point. These things generally go one of two ways: hotheaded trash talk until they realize what they’re facing. Or silent contemplation of how they’ll defeat me…until they realize what they’re facing.

It’s all the same.

And I no longer care either way. I just want it to be over. Quickly, if possible. Not that he’ll be happy about that; the bastard who runs this. I glance up to the podium outside the octagon, where a smooth-faced man is seated in a high-backed leather wingback. Cool, calm, and collected…but I know what’s beneath the surface. The bloodlust that drives him. I guess he gets off on this shit. He wants this to be drawn out. He wants to linger in the pain that will unfurl here.

He’s not the only one. The air is heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and even more expensive cigars. Men in dress suits put on a display of civility while trying to suppress their excitement.

They don’t fool me. They’re more animal than I am.

Beasts.

The brute in front of me is still yelling – the Moscow Mule, he calls himself, and his words are heavy with the accent of his motherland. Spit flecks my face as he tells me of all the ways he plans to end me. I don’t bother wiping it away. I’ll be coated in more of his body fluids by the end of this night.

I turn my head and lock a stare with the man in the wingback. Flat brown eyes meet mine a moment before he gives the slightest dip of his head and then leans back in his seat, raising his whisky tumbler to his lips. To anyone looking, he’s totally relaxed. But I can see the anticipation coiling within him.

I can smell it.

He raises his free hand and gives a flick of his fingers.

This is it.

I square my stance and inhale a deep breath, feeling oxygen flood my cells, sparking life through me. Even now, after all this time, there’s still a rush of adrenaline in this tense moment before the referee starts the fight.

Not that we have much need for a referee. There are no rules in this cage. No mercy, either.

Only one of us will walk out of here tonight.

And although the bearded man thumping his chest doesn’t believe it right now, that one is going to be me.

“Fight!” the ref shouts, and the big guy immediately launches in with a flying strike to my face.

I brace for impact as the Mule’s fist hurtles toward my face. His knuckles graze my cheek, the force of the blow whipping my head to the side. A sharp sting spreads across my skin, but I don’t flinch. Taking the hit is part of my strategy. I let the momentum spin me around, using his own power against him.

As I pivot, I drive my elbow back, slamming it into the soft meat of his abdomen. The Mule grunts, the air whooshing from his lungs. He doubles over, creating an opening. I grab a fistful of his sweat-damp hair and yank his head down, bringing my knee up to meet his face.

Crunch.

His nose explodes in a spray of crimson. He howls, reeling back, hands clutching at the ruined cartilage. Blood splatters as he shakes his huge head to clear it. Venom swirls in pitch-black eyes as he gathers himself and surges back at me. He runs straight into my fist. I land another. I don’t let up.

Can’t let up.

I launch a kick to his ribs, feeling them give with a sickening crack beneath my bare heel.

“Fucking…bastard!” the Mule slurs through a mouthful of blood. He spits a thick wad to the mat, glaring at me with murderous eyes.

I say nothing. Just stare back, impassive. Let him rage and bellow. It won’t change anything.

With a bestial roar, he charges again, abandoning all technique for wild, flailing strikes. I weave around his swinging fists with clinical precision. One lucky shot grazes my brow, sending a warm trickle of blood sheeting into my eye. I blink it away, focused.

When his furious onslaught finally leaves an opening, I twist and take his back, locking in a rear naked choke. My forearm presses into the pulsing artery on the side of his bull neck. He flails, trying to buck me off, but I clamp down tighter with my legs hooked around his trunk.

“Mother… motherfucker!” he spits out past gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he fights for air. I tighten the choke until his face turns purple. He lets out a gurgling growl of defiance, still thrashing. The crowd around the octagon goes wild.

Raising my head, I look up to the podium, waiting for the sign. The sign that will let me know this can be over. The man in the chair shakes his head. His lust is not slated.

Releasing my grip, I allow myself to be flipped off when the Mule bucks his powerful body against me. Twisting free from my grasp, he staggers to his feet, shaking blood and sweat from his eyes as he aims a vicious kick to my ribs. I feel something crunch, and I bite down a grunt before hauling myself up, squaring off against him.

He’s more cautious with me now, his eyes narrowed on me as he guards his face with upraised fists, bouncing from foot to foot in a lumbering dance. I deliberately give him a gap, flinching when a fist glances against my jaw.

“Get him, Mule!” someone shouts from the crowd. There are answering jeers, some encouraging, some not. None of it means anything to me either way. I’m here to do a job. To put on a show.

And so I give them one.

I let The Mule’s fists pound into my body for a few moments, giving him the illusion of gaining ground. His knuckles crack against my ribs, my kidneys, leaving rivers of pain in their wake. I grunt and stagger back, keeping my hands up to guard my face. The Mule advances, snarling like a rabid dog.

“That all you got, pussy?” he spits, a thick gob of blood and spittle splattering my cheek. “Thought you were supposed to be tough.”

I take another blow to the jaw, snapping my head to the side. My vision swims for a heartbeat. At that moment, The Mule presses his fleeting advantage, driving me back toward the chain-link fence surrounding the octagon.

As my shoulders collide with the unforgiving metal, I see my opening. Riding out another meaty punch that rocks my skull, I launch myself forward in a furious flurry of knees and elbows. A knee to the Mule’s ribs, an elbow cracking across his cheekbone. Blood sprays from his split skin as he howls in surprised pain.

“You fucking cu—” His curses are cut off as I clamp a forearm across his windpipe, pinning him to the fence. With my free hand, I grab a fistful of hair and slam his face into the chain links again and again.

Metal clangs with each impact, drowned out only by the roar of the crowd. The Mule slashes at me with wild, desperate swipes, nails raking lines of fire across my back. I ignore the stinging, keeping the pressure on. Pivoting, I hurl him across the mat with a savage hip toss.

He hits the canvas hard, wheezing for air. I stalk forward, intent on sealing the fight. As I descend to apply a fight-ending choke, he lunges up, sinking his teeth into the thick meat of my shoulder. I hiss at the searing pain, a little surprised. Usually, I’m the one doing the biting. I’m not put off for long, though.

Latching onto the Mule’s sweat-slicked back, I try to dislodge his bulldog bite. He just gnashes harder, clamping down with bone-grinding force. A savage growl rumbles up from his heaving chest. I can feel warm saliva soaking my skin as his jaws work.

Trapped in his clinch, I hammer him with short, sharp knees to the midsection. One, two, three – I feel the give of softening muscle and bruising organs. The Mule grunts through gritted teeth, rearing back as he tries to smash his forehead into my face. The scent of my blood on his breath lights something in me. Something primal. Something raw.

Rage surges in me.

And I feel the change begin to well in me.

It’s like a swarm of bees buzzing beneath my skin. The glow of heat as cells fire and spark as they rearrange themselves.

Control! Keep control!

I can’t shift all the way. Not this time. Those weren’t my instructions. But as I shoot another glance up to the chair on the podium, I get the sign I’ve been waiting for.

A slight nod from the man seated there. I focus back on the Moscow Mule. And he sucks in a breath as he gets a good look at me now. At the monster beneath the surface. The creature that glows from my eyes.

“Sweet Jesus, what the fuck are you?” he gasps as his eyes meet my glowing ones.

I am a beast. Your worst nightmare. The reaper of souls.

I don’t say any of this.

“I’ll make it fast,” I say instead, a moment before I sink my fangs into his throat. There’s a crunch as his windpipe shatters, a warm gush of blood into my mouth and down my chin. He jerks spasmodically against my chest, his hands flailing uselessly. I know that I’ve severed the artery that leads to his brain. He’ll black out before the pain sets in, and by then, his body will have given up anyway.

Shoving him away from me, I let him crumple to the floor as I spit gore from my mouth. His body twitches out its final moments of life as I turn away. There’s a howl of approval from the men watching from around the ring.

No amount of money in the world can disguise what they are.

Fucking animals.

I stride to the center of the octagon, standing as the referee rushes in and reaches for my wrist, hoisting my arm high in victory. My bicep is streaked with blood. It coats my chest and face, too. I can taste the copper tang of it still coating my tongue. My body throbs with a dozen aches and pains from the brutal fight, but I hold myself rigid, impassive.

My gaze finds the man seated in the wingback chair on the raised platform. Franklin Parker. His smooth face is twisted into a mocking smirk as he regards me with those flat, dead eyes. He rises to his feet, letting his expensive suit jacket fall back to reveal the crisp white shirt and burgundy tie beneath.

With a slow, theatrical sweep of his arm, he begins to clap. The sound cuts through the din like a blade – mocking, sardonic applause. I know the game he’s playing. Trying to get under my skin, to shake my stoicism. It won’t work. I’ve endured too much at his hands to let him think he can rattle me.

Still, I can’t help the hot flare of rage that licks through my veins at the sight of his smug superiority. This twisted bastard who gets off on putting us through this ritualized violence and bloodletting. All for the amusement of his rich, depraved cronies.

My hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist at my side as Parker continues that infuriatingly slow clap. I can feel the prickle of claws extending from my fingertips, straining against the tattered tape still binding my hands. The beast within me snarls, urging me to lash out and rip that sneer right off his face.

But I can’t. Not yet. He still holds all the cards. My defiance would only put innocents at risk.

So I swallow back the growl building in my throat and simply stare back at him, letting the storm rage behind my eyes. Parker regards me a moment longer before giving a slight dip of his chin as if acknowledging the threat I represent. The mocking smile doesn’t waver.

With a final clap, he returns to his seat, turning his attention to a man at his side. I watch him as he ignores me studiously, my jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ache.

There’s nothing I can do to him while I’m stuck here. A beast in a gilded cage. A prisoner. A slave to this man’s sadistic whims.

Because Franklin Parker owns me.