Filthy Beginnings, page 13
part #3.50 of Ruthless Warlords Series
The emotion in her voice slayed him. He heard the love and the forgiveness.
He took his first real breath.
They were going to be okay.
He’d fucked up, but she still loved him.
And she really believed he could be the champion.
Otherwise, she would have taken him up on his offer to run.
The dual realizations filled him with a sense of peace. “I love you so much, Scarlett.”
Her smile wobbled. “I love you too, Damien Skolov. I always will.”
Energized once more, he turned to go. Already, he could hear the announcer calling out the names of the entering fighters, whipping the crowd into a frenzy, playing up the money and prize awaiting the victor.
His chest puffed wide—he’d be entering the ring with his female’s sweet slick on his leathers and his stomach, a message to every single fighter and to the consortium that she was already his. He couldn’t lose.
“Wait!” She hurried to a table and then back to him, pressing a container into his hands. “Take this with you. It’s water.” Her smile wobbled once more.
His throat went tight. “’Cause we’re a team.” He tapped the cannister to his chest, right by his heart. “Every time I drink, I’ll think of you cheering me on. And the next time you see me, I’ll be the winner of this tournament and you’ll be mine—and I’ll be yours.”
She smiled wide, and took a step back. “It sounds almost too good to be true.”
He moved to the grate. “Believe it.”
15
Damien dodged an elbow strike and rolled to his side, leaving a bloody trail on the mat before he surfaced a few arm lengths away. He shoved his boot into the closest male with his back turned.
Snap. The fighter screamed, his body folding as he dropped to his knees, clutching his thigh and protruding bone.
Another one out.
But another fighter was right behind, fangs clashing, spikes elongating, silver horns snapping straight as he lowered his head and charged straight for Crex.
Damien shoved his orange-skinned friend out of the way and, grabbing hold of the spiny fighter’s biggest horn, yanked hard as he dropped his weight in the opposite direction. There was a squelching sound of tearing flesh and Damien held the blood-spattered horn in his hands while the fighter writhed in agony on the ground.
Damien slipped back into defense mode, the bottom of his boot sliding through the sand-packed ground as he circled, his gaze alert for the next attack. The tournament organizers had carted the sand in from outside the dome and packed it down hard to better absorb the blood and sweat.
It was pure madness in the ring. Bodies and limbs flying everywhere, the lasers that lined the sides and the ceiling buzzing and flashing every time a fighter slammed into them, the scent of charred flesh filling the air.
Outside the bars, the cheers of the hundred thousand spectators were a deafening roar.
Damien risked a quick glance at the flashing number board as the tally of fighters left in the tournament dropped by yet another one.
Only thirteen to go.
A faint rush of air by his side was his only warning. Two fighters jumped him at once.
Rather than spinning away, Damien plowed back into them, throwing them off center and making it easy for him to take them down to the mat. They landed one on top of the other, weighing each other down and helping him as he slammed his fist into the chin of one on top, then used his elbow to crack the temple of the one beneath.
Two sets of eyes rolled back. Lights out.
There was no time to celebrate.
Damien flipped over, just as a boot sailed toward him with lethal intent. He lurched to the side, ensuring it caught him in the thigh—rather than the spine—but it still hurt like a motherfucker.
He swept out his foot and brought the asshole down, and then twisted the male’s ankle, wrenching tendon and bone.
Another agonized scream echoed through the arena. The crowd roared.
Twelve more to go. Nor was he the only one dispatching fighters—Crex and his tail were definitely holding their own.
Leaving behind the smartest and most vicious. The most hungry to win.
But Damien was hungrier.
I have always believed you can win this.
Scarlett’s words echoed through his mind, driving him on.
She believed in him. Was counting on him.
He was winning this tournament and making her his.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the round and the fact that there were now only eight fighters left in the ring. The next round would decide the winner.
Pumped, Damien exited the cage and caught his breath in the designated fighters area while ring clean-up started, several robed betas scurrying out to mop up as much of the blood, tissue, and sweat as possible.
The crowd remained on its feet, screaming and cheering.
All Damien could think of was Scarlett and how it had felt to hold her. Taste her. And how fragile and worried she’d seemed.
Soon, she wouldn’t have to worry any more.
Unlocking the small storage space allotted each fighter, he pulled out the canister of water Scarlett had given him and took a long drink, feeling closer to her already.
Crex staggered over to stand by his side, a curved spatter of blood along his cheek and cut above his eye, making him look like some clown raider.
“You did it.” Damien clapped his friend on the back. Crex had made it past the final sixteen and all the way to the last eight fighters. His prize money would be even greater than he’d expected, his sisters’ futures assured.
“Thanks to you.” Crex shot him a smile.
Damien shook his head. “You got yourself here. I only cut down the competition.”
“Right.” Crex didn’t look convinced. “Say what you want. I know the truth—and I’m grateful.”
Damien grunted back.
“You’ve got this in the bag.” Like him, Crex was studying the fighters left.
Three Brotherhood-sponsored fighters remained, including a plated, hulking Kuril Alpha and a blob-like fucker that could only be from the Prendel crime family. There was one other no-name, non-Brotherhood fighter like him and a few consortium-owned warriors, likely trained by Scarlett’s brother. And, of course, there was Kadon Stormhart. Still in the tournament, as predicted. Or perhaps someone had rigged that outcome, but there was only so much the consortium or Brotherhood could do. Damien would not be controlled by them.
He surveyed those standing between him and his goal.
Cuts and bruises riddled everyone left, including him. A few had broken arms and horns, and even more looked dazed, one listing from side to side. Those would be the easiest to take out next.
But fucking Kadon Stormhart looked as clear-headed and focused as ever. His gaze locked on Damien.
Scowling, Damien stared back, not looking away as he took another long chug of the water.
He’d taken out the fighters near him easily. But Stormhart was proving harder to dispatch.
They’d exchanged a few strikes when they crossed paths earlier, but there’d been so many bodies at the start and they both kept getting ambushed by others looking to take out the favorites fast.
Damien didn’t let it worry him. He’d get around to the bastard soon.
Because this time, a sense of control guided him on and off the ring. He felt centered in a way he hadn’t before. Stormhart was just another fighter to defeat. A stepping stone to what really mattered.
Damien pictured Scarlett’s face and his true purpose reemerged, cutting past all the bullshit and the screaming crowd, golden lights, and flashing money signs.
None of that mattered.
Not even the title itself.
Not even beating Stormhart, beyond the fact that it was a means to his real objective.
His true end and his beginning was Scarlett Skolov.
He was going to be a better male for her. All grown up. Ready to be an Alpha she could be proud of.
He’d come to the tournament to prove himself.
He’d discovered, thanks to her, that he had nothing to prove—except that she was his everything.
He took another long drink.
The liquid cooled his parched throat. The thought of her caring for him soothed his soul.
They were going to be okay.
And after he won, he would never put her at risk again. From here on out, he’d treat her like a queen. Worship at her feet. Hells, he’d let her tie him up, just as promised.
Life was going to be so good.
He swayed on his feet.
The warning bell rang.
He took another quick drink for luck and reentered the ring—and had to blink twice when he noticed Crex was back by his side.
“What are you doing back?” They’d both agreed he’d tap out right before the final round.
Crex’s lopsided smile was unrepentant. “You watched my back. Only fair that I watch yours.”
“No, that’s… stupid.” Damien’s tongue was strangely heavy in his mouth. “You… need to go. It’s too dangerous.” He jerked his chin toward the exit. A strange wave of dizziness rolled through him.
“What’s wrong with you?” Crex gave him an odd look.
Shit. He must be tired. Or he’d gotten hit harder than he’d realized in the last round?
“Damien?” Somehow Crex had snuck up on him and gotten right in his face.
He shoved the guy back. “You should… go. Too much risk.”
“Which means more reward.” Crex clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I got you.”
Damien shook his head and widened his stance, willing himself to focus.
A swell of music sounded, and Damien’s nostrils flared, his heart slamming against his ribs.
Scarlett was near.
“With the final round set to begin”—the announcer shouted to be heard over the screams of the crowd, his voice echoing through the arena—“we wanted to remind those left of just what they are fighting for.” Gold coins flashed on every vid screen. “Money beyond their wildest dreams.” A drum roll gained in volume. “Fame.” The screen shifted to an image of a past fighter being carried on the shoulders of an adoring crowd. “And, of course, a prize any Alpha would kill to have.”
Scarlett’s beautiful face appeared on the screen.
Damien’s fangs punched through his gums. She looked so fucking scared—and sad.
He followed the vid maker’s line of sight until he found her. Closer than he would have expected. She was being lead into a VIP section right near the announcer’s table, crowded in with a wall of Alpha consortium higher-ups and Brotherhood investors, including N’gal Verish, Andor Stormhart, and a whole lot of other pompous looking fuckers Damien despised on sight.
His nostrils flared. There was nothing about Scarlett’s proximity to those Alphaholes that he liked.
The bell sounded.
The crowd erupted.
The hulking Kuril Alpha came at Damien so fast he almost missed it. Tearing his stare from Scarlett, he managed to jumped out of the way—and shoved the bastard straight into the laser bars.
Then, almost faceplanted into one himself as another wave of dizziness hit.
He staggered back a few steps.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Out of the corner of his gaze, he saw Crex take out another fighter. Two others went down, care of the Kuril Alpha. Then one more, thanks to Stormhart.
By some miracle, there were now only four left in the ring and he hadn’t lifted a fist to make it happen. He couldn’t.
But the next time the Kuril Alpha came at him, Damien wasn’t so lucky.
His arms refused to follow his command. Leaden, they hung by his sides.
Panic slammed through him. Not for himself, but for Scarlett. He had to win.
Crash.
A fist slammed into his jaw.
He spun sideways. Flesh sizzled as he bounced off the laser bars of the cage.
The crowd went wild, sensing blood in the air.
But he only heard one scream. “Damien!”
Eyes bouncing wildly, he followed the sound, his gaze colliding with Scarlett’s.
He fucking hated that she was standing with those Alphaholes, some vaguely familiar-looking bastard’s arm around her shoulder, her face so sad.
He would rip that fucker’s arm from his body.
Pow. Another fist crashed into him, severing his view of Scarlett and sending him stumbling in the other direction.
“Fuck, Damien.” Crex shoved him out of the way just before the final lights-out punch came. “Get those fucking hands up. At least try to dodge.” He flicked his tail and whipped the other fighter across the face—giving Kuril a new target for his fury.
Damien wanted to protest, but he couldn’t make his limbs or mouth move right.
He stumbled toward the now grappling Crex and Kuril Alpha. Took a swing. Missed.
Laughter echoed around him. Boos, too.
He was failing her.
He struggled to stay upright—and watched in horror as the Kuril Alpha looked over to where N’gal Verish stood, nodded once, and then clapped his hands around Crex’s temples and twisted.
“No!” Damien tried to make his limbs move faster.
Crack.
His friend dropped to the mat, his head twisted at an odd angle, that lopsided smile gone, his eyes empty.
“No.” Agony ripped through Damien.
He launched himself at the other fighter, a rush of adrenaline providing a spurt of clarity and control, enabling him to sink his claws into the bastard’s throat and yank out his voice box—and his ability to breathe.
Crex’s killer dropped to the ground, his face twisted in agony.
Another fighter out. But too late for his friend.
He’d fucking failed Crex.
He stumbled once more and tried to think past his grief.
The Kuril Alpha had killed Crex at N’gal Verish’s request, but how the hells did that relate to what was wrong with him?
Drugged.
The realization hit as Stormhart’s fist slammed into him—bringing a flash of clarity.
Someone had drugged him.
But who? He’d been so fucking careful. Only take food and drink from…
His head snapped up, his gaze landing on the locked storage drawer. The water container. A container no one had touched but him… and Scarlett.
Disbelief hit.
Whirling back around, his gaze locked with hers.
Her despair and guilt were easy to see. Even easier to feel through their bond.
It was her. She’d done it.
She wasn’t even pretending now. Darkness swirled within her, stretching toward him through their invisible bond, all her beautiful colors gone.
All his hopes for their future blacked out too.
But why?
Rage and pain explode inside him.
I know you can win.
Her earlier words to him. Can. Not will.
She’d known it all along—and she’d sent him into the ring anyway, and now Crex was dead and Stormhart was the only other fighter left in the ring.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stormhart charge.
He didn’t have time to give a fuck.
He stumbled toward her. “Why?”
Despite the laser bars between them, she stumbled back a step, right into the body of the male at her side.
Her eyes overflowed with tears.
He felt his fill as well.
Crack.
It was almost a relief when Stormhart’s punch landed and the darkness took him.
16
Damien awoke with a groan, the vibrations from the shuttle jostling every sore muscle—which was pretty much all of them.
But he was alive.
Which is more than he could say for Crex.
He tried to shift—only to have metal bite into his throat.
He might be alive, but they’d shackled his throat, wrists, and ankles to the hull.
The consortium was taking no chances.
Just off to the side, he counted six mean-looking Alphas escorting him from the premises, their shock sticks already fired up.
As if he had any interest in drop-kicking their asses anywhere.
He’s already caught sight of the destination flashing across the navigation screen just off to the right: Abzal.
They were taking him home. Only place he wanted to go.
He let his head drop back against the shuttle wall.
She was probably with Stormhart already. Might even now be signing the contract that would make her his prime omega: Scarlett Stormhart.
His stomach lurched, bile burning at the back of his throat.
Rage filled him. Hate too.
Kadon Stormhart now had everything Damien had once wanted.
Luc must be pleased, the consortium too. And Egan was gone, so that was one less worry for them all.
It had all worked out—except not for him.
He shifted on the hard seat. He’d never felt younger. Or dumber. Or more lost.
He still couldn’t fathom why she’d done it. But then again, her brother had warned him: Stormhart had always been the smarter choice.
Guess she’d wised up just in time.
Their dry humping against the wall her farewell sendoff before she chose security and wealth and a family with Brotherhood connections over some bruiser with none of the above.
Orgasms were nice, but they didn’t keep a female’s belly full or offer the kind of legitimacy a prize would crave.
Lesson learned.
His gaze returned to the navigation screen, and he kept it together by watching the distance to his home grow less and less.
He was so damned glad to be heading back to his family to lick his wounds.
And refocus. Find his purpose once more.
First things first, locate Crex’s family and do whatever he could to ensure his friend’s six sisters were safe.
He owed Crex that much.
Damien knocked his head against the wall, accepting the sting as his due.
