26. Hades

Chapter 26

Hades

T he fist came at me so hard and suddenly that my entire body was thrown back. I stumbled to stay upright, but a wave washed through my head, dizziness clouding everything around me.

I struggled to right myself as I crashed into the wall.

I gripped the brick, my fingers raw, bloody, and the skin torn. But I didn't cry. At fifteen years old, I was bigger than all the men my father put me up against. All I did was eat, sleep, and train.

My tutoring was done by teachers of my father's choosing. He wouldn't even allow me to attend a normal school, not like Zachariah.

No, he'd be too ashamed to allow that shit, wanting to use me as a weapon to make him more money.

But the man my father put me up against tonight wasn't like any of the other ones I fought. He was a head taller than me, so stocky and muscular that he hardly had a neck. He cursed at me in Russian, spitting at my feet and cracking his knuckles. He grinned sadistically.

His tattoos were ones I'd seen plenty of times covering the men who watched these fights. Prison tattoos that told the story of the underground.

"You stupid fucking piece of shit," my father shouted, his face red as he glared at me.

He had a lot of money riding on this fight, but I felt drunk from all the hits and couldn't even walk straight. The Russian had hit me twice upside the head. I was sure he rattled something, loosened my brain so it just slammed against my skull every time I moved.

"Get back in there." My father pointed back to the center of the room. When I weaved, he grabbed my arm roughly and tossed me back toward the Russian.

My opponent grinned, his mouth tinged red from the one and only shot I got to his jaw. He turned and spit out a mouthful of pink-colored saliva. He crooked his finger at me. I could smell the anticipation coating him.

He swung out but I dodged and ducked. He was big but fast. I landed a few hits to his kidneys, and felt my own sadistic pleasure rise when he grunted from the impact.

I kept landing hit after hit, and I felt fucking optimistic that this wouldn't be the first fight I lost. I was high on it.

Maybe Father and Zachariah would see me as an equal if I took this big fucking bastard down? Maybe they'd realize I wasn't a lowly piece of shit, and part of the family? A real Cronus.

It was that moment of arrogance, that sliver of confidence, that had me picturing all the things I'd never have in life, but had always wanted.

The Russian barreled into me, shoulder checking me so hard I crashed to the ground, my head cracking back on the asphalt.

I was dazed, confused. He had his hand wrapped around my throat, hauling me up so just the tips of my toes touched the ground. I felt something warm and wet sliding down the back of my neck, and I blinked furiously to try to get my focus to correct. I couldn't hear anything but this rush in my ears.

I could see the Russian's mouth moving but I couldn't hear anything.

The crowd was going crazy, violence-lust saturating the air. I knew what they wanted. They wanted blood. They wanted mine. They screamed for a body to be on the ground, broken and ruined.

And I knew at that moment I would be that body. My father wouldn't allow the Russian to kill me, not when he still had so much use for me.

The big fucker slammed his forehead against mine. There was a crack of pain and the instant feeling of blood slipping down my temples. All I could smell was copper. It filled my nose, almost suffocating me in the aroma of metal.

I finally blacked out.

My body ached, my bones and muscles screaming. I shifted slightly and realized I was on something hard. The ground.

"The piece of shit is awake."

It was Zachariah who spoke, the venom and acid in his voice so strong it should have burned my flesh. It sure as fuck felt like it. But I was so used to it, so used to the malice thrown my way.

My brother had been poisoned by our father for so many years there was no changing him, no making him see that we were stronger together than against one another.

I'd already come to that resolve, knew I couldn't count on anyone but myself.

At that moment, I knew I'd play their games. I wouldn't let them break me. And when the time came—when my time came—I'd take them down.

I would forever be alone, and I used that as a shield, a wall that I built brick by brick. It was the only way to protect myself.

Someone kicked me hard in the ribs and I groaned, rolling onto my side as I wrapped my arms around my middle.

My body felt like a meat tenderizer had gone to work over me, and I was pretty sure if I looked at my flesh, it would be covered with black-and-blue marks.

"Wake up, Hades." My father spit out the words, and I was surprised he used my given name instead of one of the other colorful insults he liked to taunt me with.

I blinked my vision into focus and then forced myself to get into a sitting position.The pain was excruciating, but I gritted my teeth and pushed past the wave of nausea that threatened to make me pass out.

I recognized where we were. It was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Desolation, New York. Butcher and Sons was an old slaughterhouse that was now used for the illicit business my father ran on the underside of Cronus Enterprises.

I knew this was what he trained me for. He wanted me to do the gritty work because he and Zachariah were too good to get their hands dirty with the filth they associated with.

I must've been out for a while for them to bring me to Butcher and Sons. It was a good forty-five minute drive from where we'd been.

"I said get up," my father growled and I staggered to my feet, swaying as my legs threatened to give out.

I was dying of thirst and my head throbbed something fierce. I was also confident a couple of my ribs were broken.

When I looked at Zachariah, he stood beside our father. They both flanked a long battered table. And littering the top was an assortment of implements they would use on me tonight.

A cattle whip. Branding iron. A knife. Salt. I took a step back and curled my hand into a fist.

I could defend myself, could have taken my father down at the very least. But Zachariah was still a little bigger than me, and just as brutal and strong. But now? I was too weak, my body too battered.

Zachariah walked over and gripped the scarred wooden chair that I'd seen far too many times. I'd sat in that chair more times than I could count, feeling the slats on the back digging into me. I gripped the armrest with my nails until my fingers bled.

I shook my head and pulled my shoulders back, resolve filling me. My father's face became dark with rage, and Zachariah just smirked. He liked my defiance, the motherfucker. He liked pushing me so I fought back. The asshole got off on it.

Well, today they might still get what they wanted, but I was also going to leave a couple marks of my own.

Because if I was going to feel pain at the end of all this, I was going to get my pound of flesh as well.