Chapter 5

The audience erupted. Some spectators cheered. Others exchanged uneasy glances. A man seated near the window leaned towards his companion.

“He's actually here.”

“I thought the Morettis would never allow him to return.”

“They didn't. That's the point.”

Tristan turned towards the arena.

“He's a madman,” another spectator muttered. “I wouldn't want to be the man fighting him tonight, or the omega being claimed by him.”

Tristan grew weaker. The moderator was announcing the alphas who were going to fight for him.

The announcer raised his hand.

“Make way for Damon Moretti!”

The doors at the far end of the arena opened. Damon walked out.

He wore black trousers and a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his expression was so cold that it seemed untouched by the noise surrounding him. He wasn't the largest man Tristan had seen that evening, but something about him made the others look less imposing.

Perhaps it was the way he walked. He didn't hurry. He didn't acknowledge the cheering spectators or glance at the screens displaying his name. He crossed the fighting floor with the calm assurance of a man who had never needed anyone's permission to take what he wanted.

Tristan gasped. He recognised the name. Everyone had heard something about the Moretti heir. He was the bastard son of a powerful family. The man who had attacked his own father in an attempt to seize control of the family. The son who had been exiled to the North and was rumoured to have returned with a reputation even worse than the one that had sent him away.

Some said Damon had tried to kill his father in cold blood. Others claimed the old man had deserved it. There were stories about men who had crossed Damon and disappeared, about business partners who had lost everything after provoking him, and about enemies who had begged for mercy only to discover that Damon had none to give.

Nobody seemed to agree on what had happened to the people who had earned his hatred. They only agreed that provoking Damon Moretti was a mistake. Tristan didn't know which stories were true.

Damon's opponent emerged to a roar of approval.

He grinned when he saw Damon.

“Moretti!” he shouted. “I was beginning to think you'd forgotten how to fight.”

Damon's expression didn't change. A smile twisted at the corner of his mouth.

The crowd roared. Tristan's mouth went dry. The opponent looked confident. He was strong, experienced, and apparently eager to prove himself against the infamous Moretti heir.

Tristan had hope in Damon's opponent. The last thing he wanted was for the ruthless Damon to claim him. He knew getting into the arms of Damon would be worse than being with Declan.

Maybe the other alpha could win. Maybe Damon would die before he ever had the chance to claim Tristan. Maybe Tristan could leave this place without belonging to a man whose name made even the wealthy spectators nervous.

Tristan pressed his hands together.

‘Please, Damon shouldn't win’

He didn't know whom he was praying to. He hadn't prayed in a long time.

As Damon stepped towards the centre of the arena, Tristan silently begged for the other alpha to win.

The bell rang. Damon's opponent attacked immediately. He threw a heavy punch aimed at Damon's jaw, but Damon moved aside, letting the blow cut through empty air. Before the other man could recover, Damon struck him in the stomach.

The impact drove the breath from his opponent's lungs. Damon followed with a blow to the face. Blood burst from the man's nose. The crowd roared.

The opponent staggered backwards, swearing, then charged again. This time, he managed to catch Damon across the cheek. The sound of the impact sounded through the arena.

Tristan gasped. Damon's head turned slightly. For a moment, he remained still. Then he slowly faced his opponent again. He touched the blood at the corner of his mouth and examined it on his fingertips.

His expression darkened. The opponent hesitated. Damon moved. He caught his opponent's next punch, twisted his arm, and drove his knee into the man's abdomen. Before the man could recover, Damon struck him across the face and sent him crashing to the floor.

The arena shook with the audience's roar. The opponent rolled onto his side, coughing blood. He struggled to rise, but Damon seized him by the front of his shirt and dragged him upright. A punch landed against the man's jaw, another struck his ribs.

The opponent swung wildly, managing to clip Damon's shoulder, but Damon barely reacted. He drove him backwards until his heels struck the barrier. Then Damon slammed him against it. The man's head snapped back. Blood streaked his hairline. Tristan's hands flew to his mouth.

Nobody moved to intervene. Damon released his opponent, who stumbled forward and fell to his knees. He tried to stand, but his legs shook beneath him.

Damon waited. The man looked up, blood running from his nose and mouth. His expression had changed completely. The confidence was gone, replaced by the desperate realisation that he had underestimated the man standing before him.

He tried to crawl away. Damon caught him by the ankle and dragged him back. Most of the crowd rose to their feet. Tristan shook his head.

“No,” he whispered.

Damon hauled the man upright and locked an arm around his neck. The opponent clawed at Damon's forearm, his boots scraping against the floor as he struggled to escape. For one desperate second, he managed to wrench himself sideways. Damon caught him again.

Then he twisted sharply. The crack echoed across the arena. The opponent's body went limp. Damon released him, and the corpse collapsed at his feet.

For a moment, there was a brief silence. Then the arena erupted. People leapt from their seats, shouting Damon's name. Some raised their drinks. Others applauded with wild enthusiasm.

The announcer declared Damon Moretti the victor, and the spectators cheered as though they had witnessed something magnificent.

Damon stood over the dead man, his breathing controlled, blood streaking his cheek and staining his knuckles. He looked almost bored like he hadn't just killed a man.

Tristan stared at him in horror. The fight had lasted only a few minutes. Damon hadn't fought like someone desperate to survive. He had fought like someone who had been used to this.

Tristan's prayer died in his throat. He had wanted the other alpha to win. Now the winner was entitled to claim an omega. The announcer raised his voice above the cheering.

“Damon Moretti will now claim his omega!”

Damon turned towards the viewing area where the omegas waited. His gaze moved across them, one face after another. Tristan tried to step backwards, but the wall stopped him. Then Damon's eyes found his. Everything inside Tristan went cold.

He needed to escape. Tristan ran.

He didn't wait to hear the announcer finish speaking. He didn't wait for Damon Moretti to reach the omega enclosure. The moment he realised the alpha was coming for him, he shoved past the other omegas and bolted through the nearest exit.

Someone shouted after him. He kept running. His shoes slipped against the floor as he raced down the corridor, his heart pounding so violently that he could barely hear anything else. He collided with a man coming around the corner, muttered an apology, and continued towards the exit.

He needed to get away. He didn't care where he went. He didn't care if he had to sleep on the streets or beg strangers for food. Anything was better than belonging to the infamous Damon Moretti. That was the man who had won the right to claim him.

Tristan burst through a side door and stumbled outside. He looked around frantically, searching for a way out of the complex. Cars lined the road, and security guards stood near the main entrance. He couldn't risk running past them. They would catch him, and if they did, he had no idea what Damon would do.

His gaze fell on a narrow passage between two buildings. He ran into it. Only when he reached the other side did he stop long enough to breathe. He bent forward, clutching his knees, and fought against the nausea rising in his throat.

He had escaped the arena, but he had nowhere to go. His money was still in the small locker at Declan's club. His clothes, his documents, his money and the few things he had managed to keep over the years were there too.

Most importantly, the necklace was there. It was the only thing he had left that belonged to his family. Tristan pressed a trembling hand against his chest, remembering the small box he had hidden beneath his clothes in the locker. The necklace belonged to his papa. He had been told never to lose it, and even if his family was gone now, he had to preserve the heirloom.

He couldn't leave it behind. He decided he would collect his belongings, take the necklace, and disappear before Damon or Declan could find him.

He didn't have a plan beyond that. He would figure out the rest when he was far away.

Every passing car made him glance over his shoulder. Every approaching footstep made his muscles tighten. He imagined Damon appearing at the end of the street.

He imagined Declan finding out that he had fled.

The club was still open when Tristan arrived. Men stood near the entrance, smoking and laughing, while a man in a black shirt argued with the bouncer. The sight of the building made Tristan's stomach twist. He had spent too many nights here.

Too many nights dancing until his legs trembled, smiling at men whose hands wandered wherever they pleased, and swallowing his humiliation because Declan had made it clear that refusing his orders would cost him.

He had promised himself he would leave one day. He hadn't imagined he would have to escape two dangerous men to do it. Tristan pulled his hood over his head and slipped through the side entrance.

He kept his head down as he crossed the back corridor, hoping nobody would notice him. He could hear laughter coming from the private rooms and the familiar clink of glasses from the bar. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and expensive cologne clung to the air.

His locker was in the dressing room behind the stage. If he could reach it, he could take his belongings and leave within minutes.

He was almost there when a voice stopped him.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Tristan froze.