Page 102 of Barinov

Let him bleed beneath your boot.”

I step into the ring. The cage doors clang as they close.

The big dude with Luca’s brand locks the door behind me.

“What is this shit, Barinov?” my cage buddy asks. “What did you get us into—”

Zzzzk!

“AHHH!” I scream, my spine arching as lightning rips through me. The collar glows like an electric halo, searing and biting deep into my skin.

Across the ring, Vlad or Viktor or whatever drops too, screaming and clawing at his neck. Clearly in just as much pain as me. His bat clatters to the mat beside him.

The shocks stop and the pain dulls. My breath punches out of me, rage laced with voltage. I stagger to my feet, grinding my teeth through the aftershock.

He’s still on the floor panting. His white hair is plastered to his forehead. Curling his fingers around the bat, he slowly pushes himself to his feet.

“Welcome to The Red Hour,” Luca whispers over the intercom. “You boys know what to do.”

“I’m going to kill you!” I yell toward the speaker. “Mark my words fucker, I will kill—”

CRACK.

White-hot pain explodes across the base of my skull as the bat connects. My knees hit the mat and the world sways around me in a dark haze.

“LEX!” Cade’s worried voice fills my ears.

I look over just in time to see Rez haul him back.

“No, Cade!” he snaps. “We can’t interfere.”

I swallow blood. The taste coats my tongue like rust as another blow slams into my ribs. I grunt, twisting in agony, my vision smearing in red and fire.

I hear the scrape of the bat against the ground before he goes for another swing. This time, I catch it. I twist, rip it from his grip, and slam the butt of it into his jaw. His head jerks backward and he stumbles back.

I toss the bat and lunge, my fists flying.

One. Two.

A hook to the temple, an elbow to the gut. He folds. But I don’t stop. I pin him to the floor, my fists crashing down in a savage rhythm, until a cheap shot stops me cold. A knee straight to my balls that forces me to roll off of him. He coughs and starts crawling for the bat.

“No,” I grunt.

I grab his legs and yank him back, kicking him square in the face with the heel of my boot. A few teeth scatter. He goes limp. My chest is heaving as I shove myself to my feet. Blood drips to the mat in wet splatters. He stirs—barely—but he stays down.

ZAP.

Apparently, staying down isn’t in the cards. His screams echo through the gym, drowned out by the angry crackle of the collar as it sparks again. He scrambles upright and stumbles for the bat. He fumbles the grip and swings blindly as the electricity jitters through his frame.

I duck.

He whiffs.

I spin.

CRACK.

My elbow catches him clean in the nose. He staggers and falls to his knees, blood pouring down his lips. I reach down and pick up the bat beside him. The cold wood stinging my palm.