Chapter 3: Fight 247

POV: Ryder

My wolf wanted blood, and tonight he got it. He'd always craved it.

I caught my reflection in the blood-smeared steel. The feral edge clung to me. I was a broken alpha who saw everything as either threat or prey. I'd been fighting ever since. It was easier to become the monster than remember I was once a man.

The cell door slammed shut behind me with the finality of a coffin lid. Fight 247 complete. Knox applauded. That unsettled me more than the killing.

Three more until Knox kept his promise. Three more deaths before freedom. If I still believed in promises. If freedom meant anything beyond another cage.

Dried blood cracked across my knuckles as I flexed my fingers. Not my blood. I'd perfected the art of efficient violence over fourteen years. Quick kills. Clean kills. The kind that never slowed me down.

My cell measured six paces long and four paces wide. I'd counted it ten thousand times. Concrete enclosed me on every side, each surface equally cold. A cot bolted to the wall. A toilet-and-sink combination that barely qualified as plumbing. No windows. Only a flickering fluorescent light that buzzed overhead like dying insects.

Home sweet home for the arena's undefeated champion.

I stripped off my fight gear, the torn leather pants stiff with someone else's blood. The shower consisted of a rusted spigot that ran cold more often than not. Tonight, it was freezing. Cold kept me sharp. Kept the past buried.

The water streamed red around my feet before circling into the drain. I watched it disappear and felt nothing. That was the trick. Feel nothing. Be nothing except the weapon they'd forged from guilt and grief.

Fourteen years ago, I was Lieutenant Ryder Maddox of the Elite Guard, sworn to protect the Royal bloodline. The highest honor a wolf could earn.

I'd failed spectacularly. My unit was massacred. The royal family was slaughtered. There wasn't a pack left willing to claim a failed guard. Knox found me before death could. He wanted a weapon.

Welcome to The Crimson Cage, where broken wolves became entertainment. I'd been fighting ever since. Winning ever since. Killing ever since.

Two hundred and forty-seven fights. Two hundred and forty-seven bodies added to the lives I'd failed to save... or taken with my own hands. After a while, the numbers lost all meaning. They became marks scratched into a wall, tallying a debt I could never repay.

The water stopped. I dried myself by habit, pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants, and sat on the cot. Routine was everything. Predictability kept you alive. Two hundred and forty-seven fights. Somewhere along the way, violence had become the only language I still spoke.

Scars crisscrossed my torso, some earned in the arena, most left behind by the explosion that killed my unit. My right shoulder bore the arena's brand, a deep burn reminding me Knox owned me until he decided otherwise.

My nose had healed crooked after too many breaks. My storm-gray eyes had once held warmth. Now they reflected little beyond rage and emptiness.

People used to say I was handsome. Now they called me terrifying. Good. Terror kept people away. Kept them safe from the monster wearing my skin.

"You look like hell."

I didn't bother turning. Hunter Cross leaned against the bars of my cell, his familiar cocky grin still intact despite the bruise darkening his left eye. Twenty-six years old, a middleweight fighter, and my closest friend in this place.

He was everything I wasn't. Light where I was darkness. Lean and quick where I was heavy and brutal. Sandy brown hair was forever falling across his forehead no matter how often he shoved it back. Green eyes that somehow still carried laughter, even inside this hellhole.

The crowd adored him. To them, he was the pretty-boy fighter with charm and skill. He gave them a performance, convincing them they were watching art instead of murder. Smart strategy. The crowd's favorites lived longer.

He shouldn't have been my friend. Friends became liabilities. But three years ago Hunter had decided I needed someone whose sole purpose in life was irritating me, and I'd been too exhausted to stop him.

"You should see the other guy," I said, giving the expected answer to the expected greeting.

"I did. They're still mopping him off the floor." His grin faded. "That was brutal, even for you."

I shrugged. Brutal kept me alive. Brutal kept me winning. Brutal brought me three fights closer to Knox's promise.

"I've been thinking," Hunter said, lowering his voice.

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Funny." He wasn't smiling anymore. "There's talk. Underground channels. People who smuggle fighters out. Real escape. Not Knox's fairy tale." I pushed to my feet, crossed the cell, and met his gaze through the bars.

"No."

"Ryder, come on. You really think Knox's going to let his undefeated champion walk away? You're his biggest attraction. He'll keep you here until you're dead."

"Three fights," I said, my hands curling around the bars. "Three fights and I'm done." Knox had given his word. In fourteen years I'd never seen him break a deal. Twist one? Every time. Exploit every loophole? Without fail.

Break one? Never.

"Knox doesn't free fighters," Hunter said. "He retires them six feet underground."

"Then I'll be the first exception."

I had to believe it. I had to believe this nightmare had an ending. Hunter studied me for a long moment, pity flickering across his face. I hated that look. Pity meant he could see the cracks I spent every day hiding.

He wasn't wrong. "Three more fights, then," he said quietly. "And if Knox doesn't keep his word? "I held his gaze. "I'll die trying to leave. Either way, I'm done."

The pity faded. Respect took its place. "At least let me watch your back until then. Deal?"

I wanted to refuse. Hunter was stubborn and loyal to a fault, the kind of friend I neither deserved nor could seem to shake.

"Deal."

His grin returned, chasing away the tension. "Good. I already bet fifty bucks you'd make it all the way through. Don't make me lose money."

"Get out of here before the guards fine you for visiting after hours."

"Yeah, yeah." He pushed away from the bars. "Try to sleep, old man. You look like you need it."

"I'm twenty-nine." "Like I said, ancient." "The offer stands."

He walked away, his footsteps fading into the corridor until all I heard was the buzz of the lights. I settled back onto the cot and stared at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the concrete. Anything to keep my mind occupied until exhaustion dragged me under.

Three more fights. What if Knox never intended to free me? Three more deaths. Then freedom. Or whatever passed for it in the life of a monster.

Sleep had just begun to pull at the edges of my consciousness when a scent drifted through the ventilation.

Vanilla and wildflowers.

My wolf slammed into my consciousness like a freight train.