Chapter 3

His open palm struck Tristan's cheek with a loud sound. Tristan's head snapped to the side. His ear rang. His whole face burned, and the taste of blood flooded his mouth.

Before he could breathe, Luke's fingers clamped around his jaw. His nails dug into the skin, deep, and Tristan felt them break through. Luke leaned close. There was nothing sweet left in his eyes.

He spat in Tristan's face. It landed warm and wet on Tristan's cheek and began to slide down toward the corner of his mouth, slow and thick. Tristan couldn't move. He felt every inch of its path of what Luke spat on his face. It was worse than the slap. It was worse than Declan's fists. It told him exactly what he was worth to this man…nothing.

Luke let go and flung him away. Tristan slammed into the wall and crumpled to the floor. Pain ripped through his ribs. The spit dripped from his chin onto his black shirt, and he wanted to scrub his face, to wipe it away, but his arms wouldn't obey him.

Luke's polished shoe came down on Tristan’s hand. Luke put his weight on it and stepped on Tristan's fingers. The bones in Tristan's fingers felt like they would break.

Tristan screamed.

“Stupid omega. I've been gentle with you for too long. That was my mistake.” Luke hissed.

He lifted his foot. Tristan curled around his ruined hand, shaking, tears running into the spit on his face.

“Tonight, you get the difficult clients. The ones Declan keeps for dancers who need breaking.”

Luke straightened his shirt. “And that ass you won't let me have? They're going to tear it apart.”

He grabbed Tristan's hair and shoved his head hard against the wall. Then he smoothed his jacket and unlocked the door.

“Fool. Better be ready in not more than five minutes if you don't want more punishment.” With that, Luke walked away.

Tristan pressed his good hand to the floor and pushed. He wiped his face with his sleeve until the skin stung. The spit was gone but he could still feel it. He tried to smile and pretend like everything was over, but it wasn't.

He walked to the private booth. His heart beat so fast it made him dizzy. Luke had said he was going to be assigned the difficult clients.

He stopped outside the door and swallowed hard. His throat was dry and he took a deep breath. He pushed the door open. The thick scent of alphas hit him.

Four men sat on a low leather couch with glasses in their hands. Their suits were expensive. Their eyes were not kind. They looked at him the way people look at meat.

Luke stood in the corner, one shoulder against the wall, arms folded. He gave Tristan a small nod.

Tristan looked away.

“Well,” said the man in the middle. He had a heavy gold ring on his left finger.

“Declan's little omega. Let's see what we paid for.”

Music started. Tristan stepped into the center of the room. He moved the way he always did. He rolled his shoulders and unfastened one button, then another, and his bruised hand trembled every time it moved. He knew what he was doing. Just dancing and strip teasing. It wasn't like he was going to take off his trousers, only his shirt, but he felt so scared because of how Luke just kept staring at him.

“Look at us,” one of them ordered.

He looked. They were grinning.

“Come closer.”

He stepped closer. A hand caught his belt and pulled him in. Another hand grabbed his thigh. Tristan bit back a gasp.

“He's shaking,” someone laughed.

“Good. I like them scared.”

The man with the gold ring stood. He was big, broad through the shoulders, and the smell of him hit Tristan sharply, a dominant scent that made every instinct in his body shriek to run.

The man grabbed his wrist, the bruised one, and squeezed. Tristan cried out. His knees buckled. Before he could find the floor, the man spun him and slammed him onto the couch. A heavy weight settled over his back, and a hand shoved his face into the leather.

“Stay still.”

“Please—”

“I said still.”

Fingers hooked into the waistband of his trousers and yanked. Tristan's whole body went rigid. The fabric tore at his hip. Cold air touched his skin. He heard a belt buckle clink behind him.

No. No, no, no.

He kicked. A hand pressed the back of his neck down. His cheek ground into the cushion. He couldn't breathe. Tears ran sideways across his face and soaked the leather.

“Hold his legs,” the man said.

Hands closed around his ankles. Tristan twisted his head and found Luke across the room. Luke hadn't moved. He stood with his arms folded, watching, calm as a man at the theater watching a show. When their eyes met, he tilted his head slightly.

Tristan saw something in that face. Luke was pleased. He's going to let them.

“Help me,” Tristan whispered. It came out like a whisper. “Luke. Please.”

Luke only raised his eyebrows. Then he looked at his watch. The man's weight pressed down harder. Tristan felt something hard and slender brushing against his back side.

Then a phone rang. One of the men cursed. He pulled his phone from his pocket, and looked at the screen. The rest paused too.

The man answered the call in a low voice and turned away. When it ended, the man with the phone slid it away and sighed.

“We have that meeting. Now.”

“Now?”

“Now. Unless you want to lose the deal.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. The weight stayed on Tristan's back. He didn't dare breathe. Then it lifted. The man stood, grumbling, and fastened his belt. He nudged Tristan's ribs with his shoe.

“Boring anyway. Crying like a child. I've seen more interesting corpses.”

“Tell Declan we want a refund,” someone said.

They straightened their jackets and filed out, one by one. Their glasses stayed on the table, half empty. Luke stopped beside the couch and looked down at Tristan, who lay with his torn trousers around his hips, shaking so hard.

“You got lucky. Remember that next time, nobody will have a meeting.”

Then he left. The door clicked shut. Tristan didn't know how long he lay there. Eventually he pulled his trousers up. His fingers wouldn't work the button, so he gave up. He rolled off the couch and onto the floor. His legs wouldn't hold him, so he crawled to the wall and sat with his back against it.

The room was quiet now. He pressed his forehead to his knees. A sob tore out of his chest. He pressed his sleeve against his mouth to muffle it. He didn't want to give anyone the satisfaction of hearing him cry.

Tonight was a warning. If he stayed, there would be another night, and another, and each would be worse. Declan would keep breaking him. Luke would keep watching. The men would keep coming, and one night no phone would ring.

He thought about the Black Crown Arena.

He had been afraid of it for so long, but that was the only option he had. He remembered Luke's last words. His fists tightened as he debated a tough decision.

Male omegas were rare and alphas wanted them for the pleasure they had to offer. The black crown arena was a place where powerful alphas fought for the right to claim rare male omegas. A place where the wealthy gathered to watch violence and called it tradition.

He had heard enough rumours to know that the fights ended in death. He had also heard that the winner took the omega home. At the time, the idea of entering and picking a form had seemed horrifying.

Now, standing in the middle of Declan's club with bruises beneath his clothes and strangers' hands still lingering in his memory, Tristan found himself considering it.

Perhaps he could enter the arena. Perhaps a powerful alpha would claim him and take him away from Declan and Luke.

He might have a room of his own. He might eat without being reminded that every mouthful was a privilege. He might sleep through the night without fear.

But what if the alpha who won him was worse than Declan and Luke?

Tristan's fingers curled around the edge of the table.

What if his new owner enjoyed hurting him? What if he expected Tristan to submit to every demand, to smile through every humiliation, to surrender the last scraps of himself that Declan hadn't already taken?

What if he entered the arena hoping to escape one monster and ended up belonging to another?

He could stay.

He could continue dancing, enduring the men Declan brought into the club, and praying that the next beating wouldn't leave him unable to stand. Or he could take his chances with the Black Crown Arena. Neither choice promised freedom, but one might give him a chance.