But by then, I was already there. Already surrounded by the smell of sweat and blood and desperation. Already feeling the familiar pull of the cage.
I used to fight like this in Moscow. Illegal rings where the rules were simple: stay conscious, make money, don't die. We needed the cash for survival.
But I also needed the violence. Needed a place to put the rage that lives in my bones like marrow. The red mist that never fully clears, just waits for an excuse to bloom.
Tonight, I had plenty of excuses.
Yesterday's conversation in Maksim's office loops through my head like a broken record. What he told us about Victoria. What happened to her when she was twelve. The violation. The betrayal. The monster who did it.
Ivan Valkov.
The man we killed. The ghost we thought we'd buried.
Maksim didn't give us details. Said it wasn't his story to share. But what he did tell us was enough to set me on this self-destructive path I've been walking for the past twenty-four hours.
So when my contact finished feeding me useless information, when he slunk away into the crowd of degenerate gamblers, I found myself gravitating toward the cage.
I signaled the organizer. Fat bastard named Dmitri who runs these things like a personal fiefdom. His eyes lit up when he saw me. Practically salivated at the chance to have Alexei Zverev in his cage.
Good for business, having a name like mine bleeding on his floor.
My opponent was a bull. Six-five, maybe two-sixty, all muscle and steroids and bad intentions. He hit like a freight train.
I won anyway.
Took some damage doing it. Broke a couple knuckles. Bruised my cheekbone badly enough that it's already swelling. But I won because I always win, because losing means the red mist wins instead, and I can't let that happen.
Kind of worked. The violence burned off some of the rage. Not all of it. Never all of it. But enough that I can function like a human instead of a weapon looking for a target.
I head for the kitchen. Need ice. Need to keep the swelling down before Zakhar sees my face and gives me that disappointed look he's perfected over the years.
The kitchen light is on.
Victoria sits at the island, a bowl of soup in front of her, dark hair falling over one shoulder. She's wearing comfortable clothes. Yoga pants and an oversized sweater that slips off one shoulder.
She looks up when I enter. Her eyes widen.
"Alexei!" She's off the stool in seconds, crossing to me with quick steps. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine,kotyonok." I try for a smile, but my face protests the movement. "Just a fight. Something I do occasionally to stay in shape."
She stares at me. Then her hand flies out and smacks my arm.
"You're a dumbass," she says, voice sharp with concern masquerading as anger. "Fighting like some kind of—"
I flinch. Exaggerate it, making my face crumple like she actually hurt me.
Her expression immediately shifts to panic. "Oh god, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
She's already reaching for my arm, her hand gentle where it was forceful a second ago, soothing the spot she just smacked.
I trap her hand against my bicep. Grin at her, letting her see I'm fine.
"If I can take hits from a bull in a cage," I tell her, "I can handle your love taps, princess."
Understanding crosses her face. Then indignation. She smacks me again, this time with purpose, but she's laughing too.
The sound does something to the red mist. Quiets it in a way violence never does.
