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This particular underground fighting ring is overseen by the council. They use it to dispose of their corpses through setting up fights where the guy is already fucked before he even steps through the ropes. In these cases, they’re marked for death in advance, and the cocky bastards all willingly enter the fight—a death match, no less—thinking they stand a chance of winning. They’re usually rich smackheads and junkies with gambling debts bigger than their bloated egos. All it takes is a few blows to the head and chest, and their body gives out before they’ve even hit the ground.
A broken neck and severed spinal cord are easy enough to deliver as they go down.
Putting rich idiots who think they’re gods in the ring with me is like feeding a lamb to a tiger.
I don’t care. I get paid.
And I never lose.
They’re usually all the same. Lords and earls and sick assholes who owe bad people even worse debts. With daddies in powerful places inside the Anguis who can’t even save their sorry asses. The world is a far better place without them; most of them turn out to be pedophiles, sadists, or abusers. None of them have an interest in anything but their own greed and hedonistic lifestyles.
But I’m the last face they see.
I wonder if they remember me in the hell they are bound for.
The scars run deep, and the pain slices further with each day I have to play my part. We're all here hiding in plain sight. Keeping ourselves on the inside of the very Household we’re out to seize control of.
Thorne and Ky might do so with cunning plans and using secretive information they gather from the security team like chess pieces. But I’m forced to wear the mask of death. My role is one that has always been born of fury and stoked by the rage at what happened to the only good thing in my life.
How she never got to see a day beyond her fifteenth year.
And I’ll never forgive the Noire bloodline for what they did to her.
“Confirmed,” I speak into the phone as the details are finalized. The line goes dead immediately.
Anticipation swirls in my stomach. I can already feel the crunch of cartilage and bone beneath my knuckles.
“Tomorrow’s fight?” Ky’s voice calls out to me from where he stands in the pool of light glowing on the outside patio.
“Mmm.” I acknowledge and roll my shoulders before walking over to join him. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and takes a swig as he studies me with those green fucking eyes that see right to my rotten core.
I swipe the bottle off him and tip it to my mouth. When I hand it back, my eyes linger on his bare torso, all muscled shoulders and strong chest. He’s always looked damn perfect. Some kind of golden glimpse of good to light my darkness, no matter how many times I’ve tried to push him away because that’s the asshole I am.
“Some prick who dug himself a hole that he’ll never get out of. Guess his favors with the Anguis have run out.”
Ky’s gaze is still on me as he rolls the beer against his lips. I see the hint of a smile crease his eyes as he smirks around the rim. My cock wakes up at the thought of having his mouth on me tonight.
He turns to head back inside, dangling the long neck between two fingers as he goes, but not before giving me a wink.
“That’s why it’s a lucky thing you don’t lose then, isn’t it, baby.”
9
“What if I refuse? You’re going to drug me again, is that it?” My brat has come out swinging tonight. If these assholes wanted me dead, they would have seen to it by now. I’ve been here over a week, and they’ve left me cooped up with only my simmering pot of rage for company. They obviously need me alive for this plan of theirs, and I’ve long moved beyond the blubbering on the floor in the shower stage of grief.
Right now, I’m a rattlesnake, coiled and letting my warning to stay away echo loud and clear.
There are three insanely gorgeous psychopaths standing in my bedroom-come-prison, all wearing suits with such perfection it should be criminal. Each man is armed to the teeth with glimpses of guns strapped to their sides, barely concealed beneath the bespoke tailoring fitted to their muscled figures.
Fuck all of them and their stupidly hard abs.
“Put the dress on, Foxglove.” Thorne might be standing inside the room, but he is barely present. Azure blue eyes glued to his phone in one hand, while the other is tucked loosely in his pocket. His tone is commanding, as is his presence, but I’m in no mood for this asshole’s bullshit.
Raven—or Ven, as I’ve discovered the others seem to call the wolf boy—is like an immovable mountain at my door. Folded arms sit across his barrel chest, and a fresh assortment of bruises and cuts decorate his face. The asshole stares me down as if I plan on making a break for it in my nearly threadbare gray t-shirt that comes down to my knees.
He’d likely snap my spine just as easily as looking at me.
Then, there’s the third member of this ominous squad of death. Ky looks even more Viking-like than ever with his sun-bleached hair gathered in a top knot. Along with Thorne, he’s stayed away until now, and seeing him again for the first time in a week has left me certain that is a very, very good thing.
