As they haul my bloodied carcass up from the cold terracotta floor the crowd's racket was deafening.
"Eleven wins in a row!"
"He didn't stand a chance!"
“It’s not normal!”
I groaned in agony, squinting into the floodlights as the blinding red mist that had consumed me slowly lifted. Whilst being pulled out of the Cage's pit I caught a glimpse of the lifeless, mangled wreckage of a body that was my opponent.
Unfortunately I have no recollection of inflicting that much pain yet the metallic taste of blood in my mouth is indisputable. As are the agonising slashes across my bare ribcage. I have fought and won, again.
"You'll get first pick of the prizes tonight my champ! Take them all if you want you fucking hero!" Vincent yelled over the baying crowd. "He's magnificent!" he yelled, parading me through the parting crowd like a racehorse. The stench of overheated men made my lip curl up in disgust, making them shout with delight. “He wants more, look at him!”
Slaps on the back and manly cheers carried me through the throng of successful punters. Spit landed on me from those who had bet on it being my death this time. The arena’s dazzling spotlights and amphitheatre seating were quickly replaced with seedy, flickering strip lighting and bleak concrete corridors as we wound into the bowels of the Cage.
As we lost the crowd, Vincent shouted to his son Kingsley, lurking at the far, dark end of one such corridor. “My lucky charm, this bastard! I’ve backed him since his second Showcase!” The slender Kingsley muttered congratulations but his sour face showed he had not wanted to see me return alive.
The only similarity he shared with his hulking brute of a father was their steely grey, cold eyes. Whereas Vincent was huge, battle-scarred, extroverted and hot-tempered, Kingsley was more snake-like, always skulking around in his black suit. He appeared mild in nature, but vex him, and there was no way to predict what strange misfortune might come your way.
Eleven fights had taught me to keep my head down and play nice if nothing else.
“Congratulations Ivan,” he said flatly, looking directly at me as he blocked the corridor. “Nobody has ever got through twelve, are you ready to become a legend?”
I looked down at my broken body. Blood gushed from a deep jagged wound in my ribs, my throat hurt and my leg had what looked like a tooth wedged into it. “It is up to Fate, as always,” I say demurely, knowing that all the slithering poser wants is for me to cower before him.
I may be alive but I do not consider myself lucky. For the eleventh time my wolf has killed my opponent. I hate myself for being part of this vile business but there is no other choice.
Everyone knows the happy aspects of being a Werewolf, a shifter. We boast about the happiness bestowed by the Moon Goddess, placing a person on this earth entirely perfect for you. The ability to converse with the animal spirit and seek its guidance, something unique to our kind.
People do not talk about the other side.
The fact that should one lose their mate they are wretched. It is a bereavement incomprehensible to those who merely lust. The mate bond is an intertwining of souls both human and animal. For that love to be shattered by the one you trust above all is almost blinding in its agony. Both sides of your spirit are in mourning when a rejection of the bond occurs.
Shifters also do not discuss the fact that having a wolf is a balancing act. It is not a jolly little angel on one's shoulder passing witty remarks for entertainment. An ancient spirit residing in your consciousness has more guile and cunning than we give them credit for. An inner wolf is not there purely for witty comments or thinking up quick chat up lines.
Although my wolf did use to be very helpful in that area once upon another time.
However when you are vulnerable, or depressed, the animal side can instinctively fight for more control. A stronger say in your emotions. Like a rider trying to contain the reins of a runaway horse. The wolf is only meant to advise the right direction to their human, not crack a whip and take over all control.
It is why I find myself in this bloodied, agonising state. For my wolf will not allow me to kill myself.
I want to rejoin Azalea, my deceased mate on the other side. It has been four years. Yet Kohl, my wolf will not allow it. I have tried every method you can think of. Each time I came close he pulled back on the reins, yanking me to safety. My green eyes, previously bright and friendly, apparently take on a golden shimmer.
In the packs, having such a close bond with your wolf was commended. It was seen as an indication that you and your wolf were mastering destiny together as the Moon Goddess intended. I no longer feel any pride in that shimmer.
Surviving this eleventh bout in the Cage just means once again my own wolf has snatched the reins from me. That I am not the master of my own destiny.
In drinking and gambling to mad excess, hoping to perhaps anger someone into murdering me I wound up in this place. I owed Vincent a debt and realised the Cage could perhaps serve a purpose.
Against my human will I now kill other shifters for my own survival in the hopes one of them will one day overpower my wolf's strength and finish us.
Somehow I have descended from greatness to the worst kind of brute.
The pain in my ribs awakens me sharply as we weave further through the dank corridors. A huge cheer echoes in the distance as the next bout is announced. Maxwell, my opponent has already been cleared away.
“Get him cleaned up, one more to go then get all the winners together.” Vincent licked his lips hungrily as he guided me towards the familiar clutch of haggard women in sackcloth tunics. “Then it’s prize time Ivan, make sure you get one tonight.”
As the women tended to my wounds I was stripped down to briefs. They slowly unwound the strapping from my hands, washed the drying blood from my skin. They were silent throughout. I assume they are probably repulsed by me and I could hardly blame them. What woman would want to tend the wounds of a man who was about to pick an abducted, terrified girl old enough to be their daughter as their personal instrument of pleasure?
An hour later, standing around with the five other surviving fighters from this month’s Showcase we make a grisly scene. Our cuts, wounds, black eyes and bleeding are still obvious for a few more hours before the shifter healing completes. I notice Rufus, a man I sparred with, did not make it through his round. A pity. Yet here I am, clad in a black, soft robe with a thick red trim, still alive. Instead Denton, a black-bearded criminal gives me a silent throat slitting gesture and a smirk. He had also made it to eleven wins tonight, under the self-assigned name of Denton the Destroyer. His rival in sin, Xavier, a tattooed, wiry shifter whose sadistic cunning enhanced his physical strength had also made it to eight wins. We grimly nodded at each other, the other three had survived their first ever Cage. Rufus, Maxwell, and Brent replaced by another three identically rough looking men. Faceless entities for now. However while these new victors all licked their lips and muttered
Calm the fuck down he said. What the hell am I supposed to do, just let this red haired, beast covered in open wounds haul me to his bed? He might have looked the sanest of the men in the group but that isn’t saying much. His green eyes are dull and tired, yet he walked so quickly I had to scamper after him. How can I possibly believe he isn’t going to hurt me? The man with one eye, the way he was touching himself, eager to enjoy violating one of us. If he had picked me…I shudder and try to shake the thought away before I break down. My mind is wandering yet I haven’t moved from where my new captor left me. The sounds of water and undressing from the bathroom suggest he is telling the truth, yet I am frozen. I try to lift my tongue, to form any kind of word but it is stuck too. True, catastrophic fear, the likes of which I have never known before, has rendered me both mute and a statue. I need to run away, test how strong the bars are on his windows or see if there are any guar
My last remaining adrenalin must have exhausted itself as somehow, I fell asleep. I even dreamed. They were not nightmares of being kidnapped but instead peaceful dreams of ascending, like reaching the top of a wooded hill and basking in the nature around me. Very soothing and calming. Perhaps my brain is trying to soothe my fear-soaked body into believing I will be okay. However the instant Ivan rolled over in the bed my eyes shot open, tense, and ready, staring up at the mattress, fists clenched and ready. I am not being naïve enough to assume that just because he didn’t harm me last night he won’t pounce in the morning. Instead I hear manly stretching, grunting noises then a rustle as a face quietly peers over the bed to see where I am. Surrounded by a dozen towels in a strange little den, just my face peering out and a mass of blonde hair. I am fully aware I look ridiculous. For once his face changes, a strange little half-smile forms and he mutters, “you look like a mouse,”
I make my way down to the training area. The large wood-panelled exercise halls almost make me like a young teen back in training. Except the pommel horses have been replaced by boxing rings and blood spattered punch dummies. Denton in particular liked to punch them until his hands bled. Some pathetic display of strength I guess. It certainly intimidated the newer recruits. There were twenty men including myself.Six rooms became available last night after the Showcase, seeing as they always end in an opponent's death, therefore six fresh faces sat eagerly on the front row of the benches as instructed, each holding their newly issued robe, the colour corresponding to their living quarters. They were a mix of old, grizzled, desperate and terrified. All had probably succumbed to building up debts with Vincent’s Axelon group. Sometimes fathers built up the debts and sent their sons to pay the price. A disgusting betrayal of family, they never lasted beyond one fight. If you are not
After bathing Martha escorted me back. Despite her niceness to me she was still a part of this awful system, how could be a good person and exist in here? My damp blonde hair was up high in a large bun. As soon as I got back to the room I locked the door, took off the hideous silken gown. Grabbing the grey hooded top from last night, a peculiar apple scent hit me, sending a warm feeling down my body and I hugged it closer to me. This must be what Martha meant about a shifter's scent. Is that why Martha made me have such a potent soak? Well right now I reeked of oranges and lime so hopefully Ivan will be fooled into thinking that is my particular smell. Why I clasped the grey hooded top to my chest like a comforter I have no idea. My random nest of towels has been cleaned away, the room is stark and basic. I frantically searched through his large mahogany drawers for something else to cover my naked body. Martha might think Ivan is better than the others but nobody likes finding s
Cherish, a beautiful name, looked at me like I do towards those animals Xavier or Denton. Perhaps naively I had forgotten that she would see me as a scum, no different to the rest. I don’t have to help her, I can just bide my time until the next bout and then get the hell out of here… “Who is the other person?” she asked softly, snapping me out of my dark thoughts. I realised I was still standing against the door frame, guarding her like a savage. My muscles ached with tension as every millimetre Vincent came towards crossing my threshold made my hackles rise in anger. Turning around I blew out my cheeks and ran two hands through my already dishevelled russet hair. “Other person?” “The one who says pussy mileage, compares me to a whore…I…I think that is not entirely your own voice?” Her eyes were blue and crystal clear. They looked to be free of judgement, no longer narrowed or scowling at my very presence. Instead she remained sitting inside my bed, white covers up around her wi
It’s been three days since he grabbed me, and I haven’t said a single word to him. I go to the bathhouse, he goes to his training, sparring, whatever it is he does all day. I won’t be forced into anything I don’t want to do. I’d rather die. I’d tell him that too if we were talking but he appears to be waiting for me to cave. Instead I glower at him and read the same limited book again. More fool him. He ambles about coolly, my eyes still seeking glimpses of his muscular body as he wakes and retires each day. Each morning I hear him turn over in the bed, his face peering over from the high mattress, wondering if perhaps I was going to give up being frosty. Not a chance. Today he slammed the door as he left, clearly frustrated with me. Good. Provided with the modest clothes, Martha told me Vincent was away on business so there was no risk to us while I was in the room. Meaning Ivan could stay the hell away from me. Martha still came for me every morning though since she witnessed
The girl can hold a grudge that is for sure. She is far more hot-headed than me, which I think riles her up even further. Even I have my limits though. She has no concept of how much danger she could be putting us both in. Thank fuck Vincent is away on business and that Kingsley doesn’t like calling on me, otherwise we would be in serious trouble. Heading down to training I had hoped maybe this morning she would drop the childish act. A night of tossing and turning in my sleep has left me agitated. Koh now fills my head with vivid, colourful dreams when it has been blackness for so long. Such intense dreams, recalling the beauty of Silver City and its castle left me more tired than when I went to bed. To roll over and see a frosty, angry face that considers me a murderous demon does not help matters either. But the sparks. That brief contact had sent Kohl spinning in confusion, as much as he enjoyed it, he cannot place her wolf. Perhaps it has retreated from the trauma of her kid