“I told you I don’t want the money.”
Our eyes lock.
“You think I do?” I nudge him with it. “Either you take it or I throw it over the ledge.”
Reluctantly, he takes the money and I turn away from him.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me, but I ignore him.
If I’m going to survive here, I’ll do it on my own terms.
I’ll find my own room.
I’ll train myself.
I’ll avoid Skull and Jai at all costs.
Both of them are twisted and both of them are master manipulators. Neither can be trusted. I am the only person I can trust. I want excitement and I want to experience the unknown, but not at the cost Jai and Skull are asking for.
I don’t know much, but there’s one thing I know for certain. Win or lose, I’m getting out of here when I’m finished with round two.
***Sneak Peek***
The Kitten
Jai
Pathetic.
I fold my arms and lean against a worn, concrete pillar. Its eroded edges jab awkwardly into my body, but I couldn’t care less. The more uncomfortable I am, the less likely I am to fall asleep.
The cage rattles and groans, straining under the weight of two fighters as they dance around each other, terrified of being hit. With every foot placed and punch dodged, they seal the lid on their own coffins. Skull isn’t going to want either of them.
I turn my attention to the dodgy platform above the cage. Even though his graphic ink covers every inch of his face his disappointment comes through loud and clear. Standing here, watching this fight is a waste of time. It doesn’t matter who wins because, like I said, both are dead men dancing on borrowed time.
It’s not uncommon for fights to run at such a casual pace. I mean, I’ve seen slower fights, sure, but down here their pace just isn’t going to cut it. You see, Skull doesn’t want your average run-of-the-mill fighter. He wants someone ruthless, more visceral. To join his crew you need to be merciless, you need to be raw, and you have to be willing to peel the face off of your opponent without hesitation. Of course, that’s easier said than done. Every thug has a flaw, and for the men surrounded by the rusted metal of the cage, it’s fear. They’re governed by their fear of pain. You can see it on their faces. They let their thoughts get the better of them. They let their emotions hold them back. The trick to destroying anyone is to be emotionless. I learned that a long time ago. You have to dehumanize them—see them as a sack of meat without a family; without a face. Every strike you throw has to be hard, fast, unforgiving, and thrown with the intent to kill. When you’re content with murder, there’s no fear.
Only purpose.
I flick my stare from the ratty cage and over to the right side of the room, spotting her immediately.
Kitten.
A painful pang of guilt twists my stomach. Fucking Kitten...I saved her ass and I guaranteed her a place here. Still she acts as though I’ve ruined her life. Emily treats me like I’m a bad person when I’ve been nothing but good to her. So I drugged a woman in order for her to win her round. Big deal. She wouldn’t be feeling so self-righteous if she knew what I had protected her from. Her opponent was Marishka ‘Killer’ Dimitrikov. I’d seen her a few times around various underground circuits. If the name isn’t obvious, the girl is dangerous—was dangerous. Once, I witnessed Marishka beat a grown man into submission. Though she’s tougher than she looks, Emily, the tiny but feisty Kitten, wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Involuntarily, my gaze glues itself to the light sheen of sweat on her throat. The spotlight she stands by makes the bead of sweat that rolls into her cleavage visible, along with her heaving chest. As I watch her, I can almost feel her warm breath on my skin. She’s the most peculiar little thing... Hauntingly beautiful in that ‘lost’ kind of way. At a glance, she’s almost naïve looking, but that glint of mischief in her eyes tells you she’s not the kind of girl you can manipulate.
She slips a portion of her tongue out to moisten her dry lips and all of the muscles in my torso tighten. To think that with all of the action going on around me, she’s the only thing that sends my heart pumping faster than the pistons on a steam train. It feels as though my heart will tear through my chest and take flight at any second.
Infusing with the guilt swirling in the pit of my gut is lust, and I swallow in an attempt to moisten my dry throat. It’s the same stroke of lust that got me into this mess—the very same that fucked my plan and dragged down an innocent with me. As if that’s not a dangerous enough mix on its own, coiling tightly around the lust and guilt is a fierce emotion I haven’t felt in a long time—an emotion I’m not good at controlling.
Jealousy.
It carves its way through my bones, making sure it’s felt, and I hate it. Just thinking about her tummy tightening, limbs trembling, and heart pounding, caused by the men fighting in front of her, does crazy shit to my brain—to the jealousy in my bones.
And I.
Fucking.
Hate it.
The jealousy coursing through my body isn’t because I’ve caught feelings for the stupid girl who followed me through the darkness from the safety of the train. It stems from the sense of ownership I feel I have over her. I’ve been around her. On her. In her. I saved her life, I’ve kept her out of harm’s way and I’ve provided for her. I’m not about to step down now. Not when she needs me the most—regardless of how she sees it.
A heavy thump sends the crowd into a frenzy and I keep my eyes on Kitten. She startles and swipes at a dark lock of hair stuck to her forehead. Then, her pretty, large eyes widen and sweep over the crowd. I try not to smirk as her terrified gaze seeks me out. It always does. She might be ignoring me, but she still needs me. I keep her safe and she knows it. As her stare meets mine, her body visibly relaxes, but her face hardens. Electrical currents dance along my spine and I don’t dare tear my eyes away. The current fight is the last fight for round one, meaning that round two is fast approaching—for the both of us. For the last eight days, I’ve given her the space she requested, and I haven’t engaged her in any conversations and yet she still regards me with as much resentment as she did the day before. I can’t take it anymore. I’m giving her another day to get over it on her own. If she doesn’t, then it’s up to me. I need to snap her out of her foul mood before it gets her killed, and me along with her. I get she doesn’t want anything to do with me, but she’s my responsibility. It’s my duty to get her out of here alive.
Eventually, her stare returns to the cage and mine follows suit. The red-head parades around the pen, his arms up, demanding praise for his victory. I didn’t see the knockout, but judging by Skull’s face, it wasn’t that impressive. Skull taps his fingers along the railing with deadly purpose. I’d say he’s contemplating the outcome of the fight. I’d also say he’s about to change it. The crowd roars on, oblivious to the epitome of frustration lingering above their heads. Skull glances over his shoulder at two of his men and gives a swift jerk of his head. They leave through the small exit and Skull turns his attention back to the crowd. His eyes flick over every person that cheers for the insipid fighter and when his stare sweeps to the right side of the room, he pauses and his lips curve into a wicked smirk. I don’t need to follow his line of sight to know he’s looking at Emily. No matter where she stands he always finds her, always torments her with his fucking smirks. As far as Skull’s concerned, he owns Kitten, and he’s tattooed a skull on her collarbone to prove it. A small itch irritates my own collarbone in the exact same place Skull had his goons etch their foul ink into me. Skull thinks he owns me too, but it’d be a cold day in hell before I let that happen. I’ve never desired having a tattoo and the thought of someone putting one on me without my permission makes me sick. But these are the things I have to do.
To save Joel.
To save Kitten.
To bring Skull’s empire down and bury him six feet under. The streets won’t be safe until he’s g
one and, sadly, there’s not a judge in New York City he doesn’t control, and there’s no jury that’ll convict him. Death is the only outcome for a man like Skull.
Skull lazily raises a long, thick, and tattooed arm and suddenly, the crowd falls silent. He amuses over the silence for a small eternity and leans forward on his elbows against the railing in front of him. His posture is loose, his face slack. To the untrained eye he comes across as casual—happy even—but it doesn’t fool me. There’s no humor in his eyes, or in the way he clenches one of his fists. Below him, his goons enter our space—a space I now like to refer to as ‘general population’—and I know they’re not here to hand out lollipops, that’s for sure.
I push off of the column, neglecting to brush the dust off my black tee, as Skull chuckles. I don’t like the way it sends dread hurtling through my stomach. It sets me on edge.
“You win,” he announces, smiling ruthlessly. “That means a congratulations must be in order, right?”
The winner cheers and smiles triumphantly, thrusting his fists in the air.
Poor bastard.
Adrenaline must be pounding so ferociously in his ears that he can’t hear the malevolent tone in Skull’s voice. A tone that spits so much acid it’s eating away his victory. I scan the crowd. They hear it and they’ve backed away from the cage as a result. I don’t take my eyes off Skull as I sidestep through the crowd, slowly making my way over to Kitten. She won’t be able to handle what’s coming. She never can.
The cage rattles and creaks as his two boys pry open the cage door. I shift my attention to Emily who’s watching intently. Warm, sticky, and murmuring bodies slide against me as I squeeze between the spectators, lessening the gap between Emily and me. I take three more steps and a gruesome thump prevents me from taking a fourth. A collective gasp rings around the crowded space and I turn to the cage.
Crunch.
Thump.
Snap.
The sounds of the victor’s bones being turned to dust underneath heavy, leather boots is all I can hear. His copper red hair, now brown with blood, sticks to his skull and runs over his face. Bruises already begin to manifest, painting his twisted bones into shades of purple and blue.
“Wrong,” Skull shouts, pushing off the railing. “That fight was pathetic. Death to anyone who fucking bores me.”
He brushes his long, tattooed fingers against the shoulder of his red shirt before turning and disappearing through the hole in the concrete behind him. No one speaks and no one moves as his men grab the bodies and sling them over their shoulders. These two men, the fighters, will be the third and fourth bodies to go over the railing in six days, making tonight the third night I’ll have to hold Kitten’s trembling body. She has nightmares, I make them better, and still she hates me. It makes no sense.
Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize just how close I am to her. I’m close enough to see the water that glazes the surface of her eyes, and wets her eyelashes. I’m close enough to see her nostrils flare, and chest spasm as she holds in her tears. I’ve never met someone so sensitive… so humane. My circle is filled with fighters—with killers. I don’t like what Skull’s doing, but it doesn’t stir any emotion in me. Does that make me a bad person?
I lift my hand, barely, and it brushes hers.
Am I a bad person?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SKYLA MADI is an Australian writer from Brisbane, Queensland.
Skyla started her writing career fresh out of high school and at 21 she is a giver of both real and fictional life.
She is an aquarian, lover of the written word and author of the #1 BESTSELLING Consumed trilogy.
Contact the Author
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Skyla Madi, Blood & Rust
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