I hate them.
I hate themall.
My mind drifts for a while—I’m not sure how long—but I’m instantly pulled back to myself at the sound of a blaring claxon. The beta straightens, adjusting his grip on the pole as the light above the oversized metal gate that leads into the pit itself turns green. A beat later, the gate slowly slides open, the heavy steel grating against the concrete below. The beta uses the pole to maneuver me into the ring, his human cohort hovering just behind him, finger ready on the remote.
Once all four of my paws are past the doors, the human hits something on the wall in the holding area and the gate begins to slide closed. The beta waits until the absolute last moment to loosen the noose around my neck, and he pulls the pole back just as the gate clangs shut, leaving in the ring with my opponents.
Three of them this time, which is new, but not entirely unexpected.
In the same conversation where I learned of my brother’s freedom, Doyle and his lackey were discussing ways to make things more interesting during my fights. Supposedly, the audience was “getting bored” with me, and with the humans who helped barter my sale out of business, there was no one to replace me, so Doyle suggested they could liven things up by putting me up against multiple opponents.
I lift my nose and scent the air, confirming all three are shifters, almost certainly betas since Doyle said he wasn’t able to get his hands on any more alphas.
The one to my left is older, around his mid-forties. His shoulders are broad and his limbs bulky with muscle. He cracks his knuckles as he gives me a hard stare. The one in the center is slightly smaller and at least a decade younger, his eyes flat and cold.
My gaze moves to the third, and my wolf perks up, trying to push forward.
The last of tonight’s opponents is my age, maybe younger, early twenties at the oldest. He’s almost the same height as the one in the center, but he has a more slender runner’s build. Dark brown hair falls over his forehead, but I can’t tell what color his eyes are since his gaze is focused on the drain in the center of the concrete floor. Unlike the other two who are dressed in sweatpants and T-shirts, this guy is wearing a suit. It’s a little worse for wear, but still a suit.
Also, unlike the other two, his hands are shaking.
My wolf whines and tries to push forward again, but I shove him back.
This isn’t the first time an opponent hasn’t been here voluntarily, and there’s nothing I can do for the brunet except kill him as quickly and painlessly as I can if it comes to that.
My wolf lets out another plaintive whine at the thought, but doesn’t try to battle for control, only curls into a ball in the back of my mind with a soft whimper as if resigned.
I’m not sure what to think about that. The animal side of me has been drowning in rage and darkness for so long, I almost forgot what it was like not to have to fight him.
What changed? And why now?
As I continue watching, the young shifter glances over his shoulder for a second then returns his attention to the ground in frontof him. He shuffles his feet, the slight shift in his position revealing a fourth person behind him.
A human female has her back pressed against the wall of the ring. Like her… friend?… she’s a little worse for wear, her shiny dress torn, and wisps of blonde hair falling around her pale face. Her eyes shine with fear, but her mouth is set in a determined line.
“Just stay back, Raquel,” says the brunet before glancing over his shoulder at her again.
There’s something about his voice, something abouthim, that has my wolf surging forward, fighting for control again, but, with effort, I force it to retreat. I cock my head to the side, a flicker of curiosity running through me, the feeling strangely foreign after so long.
What is it about this young shifter that can pull at my wolf like that?
Five
Neil
Therewasnodoubtin my mind that Doyle was going to screw me over somehow, but I never thought it would be with something as simple as grammar. It wasn’t until Raquel was shoved through the door into this Thunderdome knock-off seconds after I was that I considered this isn’t the South where they have a convenient plural form of the word “you.” So when Doyle said “as long as you put on a good show,” he meant both of us, not just me.
And now here we are, completely screwed—and not in the fun way.
I immediately move backward, herding Raquel so her back is against the wall, and position myself in front of her as best I can. The two shifters to our right barely spare us a glance, their attentionfocused on the opposite side of the ring, presumably where this so-called champion will enter. Either these two have watched these fights before or they were given a lot more information than I was.
Of course, any information at all would be more than I got.
I’m not even sure how long we have before this whole thing kicks off. Since the champion doesn’t seem to be here yet, I assume there’s at least a little time before I’ll be fighting for my life. And Raquel’s.
I glance around our surroundings, my mind spinning as I try to come up with some sort of strategy. A way to get the hell out of here would be even better, but I don’t think that’s happening with this set up.
The circular fighting pit is recessed at least ten feet below the stands and there’s some sort of chain-link dome over it which means the simplest escape route—jump out of the ring and go through the crowd—definitely isn’t feasible. The door we came through is electronic, and the larger steel gate across from us probably is too, so we won’t be getting through either of them. The floor is concrete all the way to the wall, the only opening a square drain in the center which, even if I could get the grating off, isn’t big enough for me or Raquel to crawl through.
