Ven

Ven

M y muscles ache with that bone-weary level of tiredness that comes from a lengthy bout in the ring. When the punches being thrown amount to winning or losing, rather than with any other goal in mind, it's a different kind of fight, I find.

More fun, more of a chance to toy with my opponent, but also more tiring. I'm not having to concentrate on anything except scoring and technique, rather than chess moves to try and figure out the best way to inflict a fatal blow.

To be honest, that was the hardest part at first. Having to pull my punches and remember the real reason I was stepping into the ring.

It would have been easy to walk away entirely, I guess, but truth be told, I need this shit more than I realized. Not that I need to be landing my fist into someone's face until they spit fragments of teeth and globs of blood everywhere.

No, what I need is the fight. The fucked up part of me enjoys the hunt.

Even if the only way I satisfy that craving is through games and a square surrounded by ropes these days.

Probably healthier than what I spent too many years of my life being forced to do.

There isn't any other way to explain it. Some people need to run their demons away or lift heavy shit in a gym, but I need the opponent, or more precisely, the target.

So, now, I get to do that for money, and the other guy gets to go home without the body bag.

Peering at my knuckles, they're cut up, and I'll need to find some ice when we get to wherever the fuck we're staying.

This fight was in some back-of-nowhere town, buried in snow and vodka, where we had to fly to some remote location in order to take part. Prize money for it was a big draw card, as well as the fact several of my initiates who I'm mentoring were entered in the draw as well.

Ky was supposed to come with me, but instead, thanks to whatever took him down at the last second, I've ended up with Thorne being by my side for this trip, which is… different. To say the least.

With Ky, we've got a flow. The two of us have done this so many times together, and yet, in all the years I've known the Callianos, I've never had to spend time like this with just Thorne.

He did what was needed to support me in the ring. Impeccable in every detail, as he always is. The guy has seen me fight enough times that he knows the ropes well. It's this more recent part, when we're long rid of the noise and the crowds, when he hasn't said much on the drive to wherever we're staying.

Our jet is due to leave in the morning, since this backwater little piece of Siberia we've come to is almost permanently coated in ice after dark.

Fox wouldn't hear of us attempting to use the runway this late at night, with conditions well below freezing.

So here we are. Attempting to navigate darkened streets and snow drifts until we find whatever accommodation we're due to stay in.

I'm ready for a hot fucking shower and to clean up this blood.

Lights glow up ahead, and some palatial-looking hotel sits at the end of a sweeping driveway. Way out in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere frequented by the Anguis and owned by one of the high-ranking members.

As we pull up and the valet handles the vehicle, we both grab our bags and head inside. Although, we don't even make it as far as the front desk before a man with a clipboard and wire-rim glasses cuts us off, looking flustered as hell.

"Mr. Calliano, I'm so sorry, but there has been a problem with the rooms you have booked."

He looks like he wants to crawl into a hole and die. Probably fair, considering the look Thorne is decimating him with right now.

As he looks over at me, I see the man's eyes widen and do a double-take, seeing the state of my split lip and bloodied hands.

"A problem?" Thorne drawls.

The concierge shrivels behind his clipboard, using it as a shield.

"We are overbooked… with the fights and event this evening, and more guests than we anticipated. So, it is just a single room we have available, instead of the two rooms you had reserved."

This sounds like a problem for someone else, and I don't fucking care.

"Whatever." I surge forward and snatch the keycard out of the man's fingers. "We share a bed all the fucking time. I don't give a shit about sharing a room."

My boots echo against the marble floor, and I hit the elevator call button. Behind me, I can hear Thorne talking to the man some more, but I'm not paying attention. He's asking questions and trying to see if there are any other possible options, while the guy charged with delivering the news is stammering something about the closest alternative place to stay being over an hour away.

"You getting in?" I grunt as the doors swish open, and an expanse of glass and gold and piped piano music reflects back at me the battered and bruised appearance I managed to startle the neatly put-together man at my back with.

"Tenth floor, room 1011. Take a left as you exit the elevators, and it's at the far end of the wing—"

Thorne steps inside the elevator compartment with me and the doors are already closing before the man can finish speaking.

I don't care about us having to unexpectedly share a room; we do it all the time back at the compound. We share a bed, we share our girl, and we share Ky.

What lurches around inside my gut is that this is the first time we're doing this alone, and the man beside me is about as easy to read as I am on a good day.

So, now we're stuck here, side by side, as a light flickers through the sequence of ascending numbers, and we travel toward the floor where we'll both be staying for the night.

Without the buffer of anyone else in the way to provide the perfect distraction from the noise that has progressively gotten louder. The barking inside my brain whenever it comes to the lingering, unanswered question of who Thorne Calliano is to me beyond a person I share a whole lot of goddamn parts of myself with.

Great.

Just fucking great.