The alpha fighter on top of the other lets out a roar of pain as his body jerks and stiffens from the shock.
I swallow hard, the rubber of my own shock collar pressing against my neck because of the weight of the leash, feeling a lot more restrictive than I’m used to.
A couple of the handlers that seem to work for this underground fighting ring come in and drag the unconscious fighters into transport cages before they disappear down their respectivehallways. Another group of handlers comes in with a forklift full of fresh sand that they dump in the center of the ring.
I wonder how much blood has soaked into the sand beneath.
“And now,” A voice calls over the crackling speakers. “We have three fighters from the Mercer Family Farm versusfourfighters from Jubilee Stables for our first team fightever!”
The crowd goes wild after the announcement, but my heart stutters in my chest.
Four?
I thought they were only up against three others?
Fear twists itself low in my belly, working its way up my throat.
The alpha in front of us lets out a low whistle, his gaze shooting across the balcony to where I assume the Jubilee Stable trainers are.
“Those are some pretty tight odds, even if that really feral dog of yours manages to not tear apart his own teammates. Good luck out there,” he says already moving away, like he doesn’t want to associate himself with who he assumes to be the losers.
“Are those—are those really bad odds?” I whisper to Rowan, my knuckles going white as I grip the bars of the balcony.
“They’re not great,” he mutters. “I didn’t know this would be the matchup. They’re random, most of the time. Makes it harder for people to rig the betting. I knew there was a team of four approved, though.”
His words do nothing to reassure me.
“Come with me,” he murmurs, tugging me towards the betting booth on this floor. Since there are fewer people on this level, this booth is far less crowded than the one on the main floor, so we don’t have to wait in line.
“You betting?” A gruff, older alpha with a thick beard asks, shooting me an appraising glance.
“Yeah,” Rowan nods, tugging out his wallet.
“Well, lookie here.” Jett’s moldy scent fills my nostrils as hesidles up next to Rowan, throwing a thick arm around his shoulder. “What’re you doing baby bro?”
“None of your business,” Rowan snaps back, shrugging Jett’s arm off his shoulders.
“Actually, it is. Dad sent me to check up on you when he noticed you were walkin’ over here. Hope you’re not doing somethin’ stupid,” Jett sneers.
“I’m not,” Rowan mutters. “I wasn’t even going to use the family money. Believe it or not, I’ve got a couple hundred bucks I’ve saved up of my own money.”
Jett’s about to open his mouth to say something, but the bookie interrupts him with a roll of his eyes.
“You gonna bet or not?”
“I am,” Rowan says, slapping a handful of hundred and twenty-dollar bills on the table.
“Least you’re confident,” Jett mutters before his gaze cuts to me. “Love the outfit you’ve got on.”
Rowan slams down another hundred-dollar bill onto the countertop with more force than necessary, taking a small step forward and hiding my body from Jett’s gaze.
“Putting two hundred on the Mercer Family Farm team winning the match overall. Then a hundred on Ash getting the first hit. Another hundred on Rage getting the first knockout,” Rowan slides over the neat piles as the bookie notes down his bets. “And then for my final bet, another two hundred on all three of them stopping when the buzzer sounds. No shocks needed.”
“Tight odds there,” The bookie says as he prints out a ticket for Rowan to keep.
Rowan shoots a glare at Jett, accidentally tugging on the leash as he starts walking back towards the balcony.
“See? I’m not doing anything wrong. You can go back to Dad and tell him he has nothing to worry about.”
