Chapter 4

THE NEXT DAY

By the time Tristan reached the Black Crown Arena, he had almost convinced himself to turn back. He had made a decision to take a risk. He wanted to run away from Declan by all means. He couldn't continue living his life serving Declan to pay off a debt without receiving any payment in return.

The building stood behind a row of private entertainment clubs, its black exterior illuminated by white paint lines. Luxury cars lined the entrance, and men in expensive suits passed through the guarded doors as though they were attending an exclusive party rather than a competition where losing meant death.

Tristan stood across the street, staring at the entrance. He had spent most of the night thinking about his options. He could return to Declan's club and endure whatever the man demanded, or he could take his chances with an alpha he had never met.

Neither choice promised freedom but at least the arena offered a possibility. He touched the sore spot beneath his ribs and winced. Declan's beating had left his body aching, and he had barely slept. The bruises on his face were difficult to hide, so he had covered what he could with a little concealer borrowed from the dressing room.

He wasn't going to let a swollen cheek send him back to Declan. Tristan crossed the street. Two guards stood at the entrance. One examined him from head to toe before turning to his companion.

“Where is your form?”

Tristan held out his phone with shaky hands. He had purchased a form online last night with little of the money he had stolen from Declan.

The guard nodded and shifted for him to pass.

Tristan entered. The noise hit him first.

Thousands of voices rose, blending into a roar that seemed to shake the floor. Bright lights flooded a circular fighting arena surrounded by tiered seats and private balconies. Men occupied every available space.

Tristan stopped near the entrance. He had expected something more brutal. He hadn't expected something this grand. The arena looked more like an expensive sporting venue than a place where men died. Golden railings surrounded the upper levels. Private booths overlooked the fighting floor, where wealthy spectators sat with drinks in their hands and anticipation in their eyes.

A massive screen displayed the competitors' names. Beneath it, several male omegas waited in a secured enclosure.

Tristan's throat tightened. Some looked as frightened as he felt. Others stared straight ahead, their faces expressionless. One omega had his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. Nobody appeared to be enjoying the experience.

A man in a dark suit approached Tristan.

“You're the new entrant?”

Tristan nodded.

“Come with me.”

He followed the man through a side corridor and into a waiting room. Several other omegas sat along the walls, accompanied by arena staff who checked their names and documents.

The man handed Tristan a number.

“Keep this visible. When your turn comes, you'll be presented to the competitors.”

There was no promise that the alpha who won him would be kind. No guarantee that he would be treated better than he had been at Declan's club. Tristan looked towards the corridor leading back to the entrance.

He could still leave. He could return to Declan, apologise for his behaviour, and hope the next beating wouldn't be worse than the last. His fingers tightened around the number.

No. He had come this far. He wasn't going back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for the next claiming match!”

The announcer's voice thundered through the arena. The crowd erupted. Tristan stood behind the entrance curtain, watching through a narrow gap as two alphas walked onto the fighting floor.

The first was enormous, with a thick neck, scarred knuckles, and a tattoo stretching from his shoulder to his forearm. The second was leaner, with long hair and a jagged scar running across his jaw. Both men looked capable of killing someone.

The announcer introduced them, listing their achievements and previous victories. The crowd cheered as their names appeared on the screens above the arena. Tristan barely heard the names. He was watching their hands. They looked scary. At least they weren't fighting for him. It wasn't his turn yet.

One wore black gloves. The other didn't. Neither look nervous. The bell rang. The larger alpha attacked first. He charged across the floor and drove his fist into his opponent's face. The impact snapped the man's head sideways. Blood burst from his nose, splattering his cheek and the floor beneath him.

The crowd roared. The injured alpha staggered, recovered, and retaliated with a blow to the ribs. He followed with another punch, then seized his opponent around the waist and slammed him onto the ground.

They rolled across the fighting floor, exchanging vicious blows. Their fists struck flesh with sickening thuds. One man's lip split open, and blood ran down his chin. The other's eye began to swell until he could barely see.

Tristan gripped the curtain. One of the men managed to climb on top of his opponent and began striking his face. The blows landed repeatedly, each one more brutal than the last. The defeated alpha struggled to shield himself, but his movements grew weaker until his arms fell away from his head.

Then his opponent caught him by the throat. Tristan's eyes widened. The man twisted sharply. A horrible crack rang through the arena. The alpha beneath him went limp. For one second, Tristan couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. Then the victor released the dead man and rose to his feet, blood smeared across his knuckles.

The crowd erupted into applause. Tristan stumbled away from the curtain, one hand clamped over his mouth. The dead alpha lay motionless on the floor. Nobody rushed to help him. Two attendants entered after the winner was declared. They dragged the corpse away while workers began cleaning the blood from the arena floor.

The next match was already being announced. Tristan stared at the empty space where the body had been. They had removed the dead man as casually as someone clearing away a broken chair.

His stomach twisted. He had known people died here, but some foolish part of him had imagined there might be rules, some limit to what the competitors were permitted to do. There was no limit.

The men entered the arena knowing that one of them would leave in a body bag. And the people watching were enjoying themselves. Tristan pressed his back against the wall. He wanted to leave.

He wanted to run through the entrance, keep running until the arena disappeared behind him, and never look back but Declan would still be waiting. And if Tristan left now, he would have nowhere to go.

He forced himself to remain where he was. Then the announcer returned.

“Distinguished guests,” he declared, his voice suddenly charged with excitement, “our next competitor needs no introduction. He is the exiled heir of the Moretti dynasty, a man whose name has become synonymous with brutality, a fighter whose enemies have learned that mercy is not something he offers!”