Page 26 of Descent
I couldn’t afford to lose this.
And yet I hadn’t reconciled the facts in my mind. I couldn’t lose…but winning meant someone’s death. Someone’s unjustifiable death. Someone who probably faced the same fucked-up situation as me.
Forced into this fight, a loved one used as a pawn.
Winning might mean I’d have the blood of two people on my hands. I could end up killing an entire family if I took into account whatever retribution my opponent would face.
Except he wouldn’t face it because he’d be dead, and I’d have to find a way to live with that for the rest of my life. After Shelton got through with me, I’d have a lot of fucking deaths on my conscience.
This was only the beginning.
My opponent stepped into the cage, his wrists in cuffs like mine. He wore a pair of ripped jeans and combat boots, and his brown hair fell over a wide forehead, nearly obscuring eyes as striking blue as the sky. He had a few inches on me, though a much leaner frame.
But that didn’t necessarily put him at a disadvantage. It was all in how you used what you had. I’d remained in shape over the summer with a rigid routine of swimming, pushups, and using whatever I could get my hands on for free weights. I’d even lifted Alex as a means to an end. We’d often fought off boredom and never-ending solitude by working out. But working out wasn’t competing, and this couldn’t be considered competing.
This was pure fucking survival.
The guy I was meant to kill tilted his head, and our eyes met from across the cage. His expression brimmed with determination as the men surrounding him removed his shackles. He bunched his hands, and the angles of his face hardened. A certain hunger lit his eyes, turning that sky blue into a smoldering fire pit. It was the same type of hunger that made me salivate for the fight, for the freedom that came from pounding into flesh…from stealing someone’s desperate breath.
For the man standing several feet away from me, I didn’t want it to be his last, but Shelton had me cornered.
Military Dude released my hands, and the rules were drawn in the sand—the fact that only one rule existed.
The cage wouldn’t open until one of us stopped breathing.
After the final introduction, the men exited the cage with Shelton, leaving my opponent and me alone. The door slammed shut, padlock engaged. Three dings signaled the start of madness as we circled each other, eyes locked and attention narrowed to the space between us. Tension coiled off our bodies in waves so tangible, I could practically taste them on my tongue.
I catalogued the flex of his muscles, the flare of his nostrils, the weight of his muddied boots on the concrete. The crowd ceased to exist. Shelton fucking ceased to exist.
For a few moments, I could almost pretend this was a normal fight, that we’d both walk out of here alive, that Jax or Alex waited for me just outside those bars, ready to offer congratulations before I collected a large purse that made the violence worth it.
My opponent lunged for me, fist blasting into my jawbone, and my back hit the concrete. He followed up the first strike with several more jabs to the face. The guy was agile. Fucking quick and light on his feet.
Fuck, I’d underestimated him.
I seized his arm and grappled him into a submission hold, stretching his tendons until his face reddened from exertion. Metallic coated my tongue. Turning my head, I spit a mouthful of blood onto the concrete.
Just another splotch on Shelton’s stage of pain.
But I hadn’t locked the guy in, and with each grunt-filled centimeter, he broke free. We jumped to our feet at the same time, fists raised. The circling resumed, both of us waiting for the right opportunity as the crowd clamored for it to happen now.
But that was the problem. Under these circumstances, how could there be a right time to go after someone with the intent to kill? Springing forward, I landed three strikes to his temple, followed by a knee to the solar plexus. We participated in this dance to the point of frustration, trading jabs and kicks. Back and forth, just testing each other.
Like two alpha lions playing with their food before going in for the kill.
Because there was no right moment. No epiphany blindsiding me with sudden wisdom that would help me get the fucking job done. Back when I killed Perrone, I’d done it in a rage, and his death had come fast.
Faster than the bastard had deserved.
When I hunted Brock down to serve my idea of vengeance, I’d taken more time in making him pay, but his death had still come quick. The only way I’d be able to kill the guy sizing me up now was to make the decision and go for it.
