The greasy smiles of the four men fencing her in faltered.
“She means Darien Cassel,” the heavy one murmured.
“She’s bluffing,” hissed the one who’d grabbed her ass, the stubble on his face an oily smear of black in the red light.
“Only an idiot would wait to find out,” Loren crooned. “Are you boys idiots?”
Their eyes no longer shone with sick anticipation. Now, they were glazed with fear.
For a long while, they assessed her, as though she were a threat.
As though they were beginning to understand that while they were busy cornering a mouse, they, too, had fallen prey—to an apex predator with far bigger claws.
“She’s not worth it,” the heavy one said, backing away a step.
A third one muttered something about having other fish to fry, and Loren couldn’t stifle the smile that spread across her face. She lowered her head and slipped away, through the space they provided to let her pass.
Gravel crunched beneath her sneakers as she hurried through the gates to the nondescript building, and into the Pit.
—
Everything about the Pit screamed that she didn’t belong here.
Faces leered at her, unwashed bodies jostled her, and clouds of smoke that reeked of cat urine burned her eyes. She tried her best to block out the noise and the stench as she shoved her way through the rowdy patrons that were crammed shoulder to shoulder around the fighting ring, the dense crowd a wall of flesh blocking her view of the Pit, the floor of which was roughly two-dozen feet below where the audience was gathered to watch.
The squalling of a bullhorn cut through the clamour of the crowd, the noise startling her as she pushed her way through the throng of writhing and jumping bodies. The closer she got to the Pit, the stronger the smell; it was a blend of smoke, sweat, and oil, all tangled up with the coppery stink of blood.
Before she made it even halfway through the crowd, an elbow swept up and nailed her square in the nose. The crunch and snap of bone from the Pit below scared her for a moment into thinking her nose had been broken, for blood was gushing down her face. Stars sprinkled her vision, and her eyes watered from the pain.
“Darien!” she called, her voice swallowed up by the yelling of the patrons and the stamping of feet. Elbows struck her in the ribs, and fists that were raised in excitement bumped her from behind.
There was another sharpcrackfrom the pit, and the cheers of the audience turned into an ear-shattering roar. The telltalethudof a body hitting sand could barely be heard over the barrage of noise.
“Darien—” Someone shoved her from behind, and she barely caught herself before she fell, palms shredding on the sticky cement floor. Someone stepped on her hand before she could right herself, and she drew in a hiss at the twinge that knifed through her fingers.
Boots scraped against stone.
And then she heard his voice.
“Move aside!” Darien boomed, but the cheering barely dimmed as he approached the throng of adoring fans.
Through the spaces between the rows of heads, she caught sight of him as he scaled the last few feet of the steep wall he’d jumped up. As he stalked into the crowd, people began backing away, but not fast enough for his liking.
“Move!”he bellowed, voice like the crack of a whip.
The sound of heavy boots pounded above the rustling of the crowd, and she knew he’d spotted her then, where she was doubled up in pain between two sweaty males, blood pooling in the hands that were cupped to her face. The sound of his footsteps slowed only just, and then picked up again, to a faster pace.
“Back the fuck up!” Darien snapped to the people that were still cheering; still trying to get a word in to their champion. The few who had half a brain shrank from his gaze, and those who were sober enough to notice the murderous look on his face went so far as to step behind their companions.
Darien grabbed the closest person to him and broke the man’s nose with one lash of his fist. The man yowled in pain as the bone flattened into his face.
Nobody made a sound after that.
And the sea of bodies parted, as though invisible hands had pushed them aside, their roars of enthusiasm quieting to whispers as they let Darien through.
The denim of his jeans was black with blood, his boots caked with it. The filthy white shirt he was wearing hung off his honed body in tattered ribbons. He found a clean end of it near the hem and ripped off a strip of fabric.
“Loren, baby,” he whispered, pressing the fabric to her nose. “What’s going on?”
