Page 2 of Butterfly Assassin
Even from one floor up, the smell hit him like a wall—sweat and alcohol laying heavy over whatever artificial scents the patrons wore. Blocking it out as best he could, Aaron followed Blake—Smith’s main minion—as he led him from the toilets, through a set of double doors, down the stone steps to where a crude ring of people waited, chanting the nickname they’d labelled him with.
They rounded the corner and Aaron rolled his shoulders, attempting to settle his wolf and get into the headspace required to fight. Movement caught his eye, left and right, as money changed hands. Despite his efforts not to, he scanned the crowd for one familiar face. There, over by one of the concrete pillars and thankfully standing on his own, was Harry—Aaron’s best friend and the reason he’d started coming here in the first place.
Blake made a grab for his arm, and Aaron fought back a snarl, curling his lip in a grimace instead. As minions went, Blake wasn’t so bad. Aaron didn’t want to piss him off unnecessarily, and snarling like the shifter he was would certainly do that.
“Calm the fuck down, Princess. I was just gonna lead you through the fucking crowd.” Blake rolled his eyes and gripped Aaron’s bicep harder than necessary, probably thinking he was intimidating.
Aaron fantasised about shifting on the spot and ripping his throat out.
Try calling me Princess then.
The crowd parted, allowing Blake through to the middle, and Aaron got a look at his opponent for the first time. The guy appeared to have a couple of inches on him at least. Aaron was no shortarse at almost six feet, but he’d be looking up when they faced each other in a few minutes.
He took a moment to analyse the rest of him—bulky shoulders, not overly broad, but well-muscled. Aaron had faced worse. The guy was bare-chested like Aaron, dressed in only dark blue jeans and a pair of ratty-looking trainers. He gave Aaron a once-over in return, obviously not troubled by what he saw judging by the sneer that followed.
Aaron smirked.
Bring it.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. Smith was in the crowd somewhere. Aaron hadn’t spotted him, had no chance of picking out his scent amidst everything else, but he knew he was around. Big money would change hands tonight.
Aaron hoped Harry took his advice and didn’t bet on his fight. He didn’t want them connected in any way.
The noise quietened to murmurs and whispers as the referee for the night moved to the centre of the ring. He pointed to each fighter, introducing them in turn and announcing their past wins and losses.
Aaron had only lost once.
That had been his very first fight—too focused on not coming off as too strong or too fast. He’d honed his technique since that night, sometimes ending the fight after a couple of rounds, sometimes extending it way past that. But he always won.
He’d have to switch that up soon.
Charlie Cross.
That was the man looking at him as though he wanted to crush Aaron under the sole of his ripped Nikes. No nickname. Charlie was probably too new to have earned one.
Bouncing on the spot, Aaron only half listened to the ref spell out the rules. They were basic—ten rounds, each lasting roughly three minutes. The ref would give a count of ten for knocked-down fighters to regain their senses, and he had the power to stop the fight at any time if necessary.
Aaron stifled a snort. The ref always glanced over to wherever Smith sat before he made a decision. In Aaron’s experience, a fighter needed to be half-dead before the ref was given the nod to stop the fight. It was probably only the inevitable complications a death would create that made him stop them at all.
The ref glanced over at him. “Ready?”
Aaron rolled his shoulders and brought his guard up. He nodded.
Stepping out of the way, the ref yelled, “Fight!” and the rowdy onlookers roared in response.
The sound fell away, pushed to the edges of Aaron’s awareness as Charlie made a beeline for him, fists raised. Aaron’s focus narrowed. He clenched his fists once, letting the tiniest tip of claw out—the pinpricks against his palm enough to ready him.
Charlie threw the first punch, aimed at Aaron’s midsection, and Aaron danced out of the way. He aimed a left jab at Charlie’s kidneys, knowing it’d get blocked, but this was the game they played—gauging each other’s defences and trying to find a way in. Most shots were aimed at the body; the hard bones of a human jaw and skull could do a lot of damage to unprotected hands.
Aaron could dart in lightning quick and get under Charlie’s guard, but not without giving himself away, so he bided his time as they traded punches to the delight and frustration of the crowd.
They wanted blood.
It had been a while since Aaron finished a guy off in under two rounds, but tonight he thought he could get away with it. Charlie’s upper body already gleamed with sweat, and his hair stuck to his forehead. He was in worse shape than he appeared, which worked in Aaron’s favour.
Aaron’s shifter body held no fat, only muscle, and he moved with a sinewy grace around the underground parking area, light on his feet and agile. It wouldn’t be surprising if he made quick work of tonight’s opponent, despite the size advantage Charlie held over him.
All he needed was a couple of good shots to start the ball rolling.
