Chapter 33 #2
I’ve seen blood. Screams. Death. I’ve made people cry in pain and watched without flinching.
But this—
This is the first time I’ve felt helpless and useless.
This is the first time I’ve seen Lucas shattered like this, and I didn’t even know he could shatter this way.
“Alex,” Tyler says softly, voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. “Please, can you give us a little time alone?”
My gaze moves to him, and I see him watching me with a sympathetic and apologetic look on his face. His arms are still wrapped around Lucas. My Lucas. Who is still shaking quietly, violently, his face buried so deep in Tyler’s chest, it’s like he’s trying not to see me.
My hands clench into fists. I feel it, the bitter taste of it rising in my throat.
Guilt. Rage. Something feral.
But I nod—a sharp, jerky movement. I don’t trust myself to speak. I can’t. I might crumble if I do.
I turn and walk out. The second the door clicks shut behind me, the weight of it all caves in.
What the fuck happened?
I storm into my room, and the air feels too thick. My skin itches, my clothes feel like they’re strangling me. I rip off my shirt, shove down my slacks like they’re made of Thorns.
He was fine this morning, wrapping up Tyler’s gift with a smile on his face. He had kissed me deeply and said, “See you tonight,” with that shy smile of his.
My jaw tightens until it aches. My knuckles slam into the side of my dresser with a crack that echoes through the room.
Pain explodes through my hand. It barely makes a dent in the pressure inside my chest.
I yank open a drawer, throw on the first clothes I find. My jacket feels like it’s sticking to my skin as I shove my arms through it with trembling hands. I grab my keys. My helmet.
And I’m out.
Out of the penthouse.
Out of the thick, suffocating silence.
My body moves faster than my thoughts, like I’m trying to outrun something I can’t name.
I need out. I need speed. I need to fucking burn.
Because I hate this.
I hate how he broke down and found safety in someone else’s arms, not because he chose Tyler over me — no, fuck that, but because I do not know what caused it and how to stop it.
And worst of all? He flinched. He flinched when I touched him. He looked at me as if I were the threat.
I take a sharp breath, but it doesn’t steady me. Nothing does.
My bike growls to life beneath me, but even that sound isn’t loud enough to drown out the roar in my head.
I twist the throttle harder than I should and speed off into the night, eyes burning.
The city blurs past me in streaks of red and silver, but it doesn’t help.
Not the wind.
Not the speed.
Not the way the engine growls like a beast beneath me.
None of it is loud enough.
None of it drowns him out.
I’m still burning.
Still clenching.
Still hearing that sound he made in my head—like he was choking on fear, on pain, on a memory I wasn’t part of and couldn’t tear apart for him.
My jaw throbs. My fingers are numb on the throttle.
Eventually, I pull off into an empty lot, kill the engine, and just sit there, helmet still on, heart racing like I’m still in motion.
I pull out my phone, then dial Maksim’s number
It rings once.
“Well, well, look who it is. Big brother’s alive. What, you finally miss my voice or just called to—”
“Put me in a fight tonight,” I say, voice low and flat, cutting through his teasing.
A beat of silence.
“Wait, what?”
“You heard me, Maksim. Put me in the ring tonight at the Elite circuit.”
More silence. I can hear him blinking through the phone.
“Alex… you quit three years ago.”
“I don’t care.”
“What the hell’s going on with you?”
“Just get me a fight. I want someone who hits like hell. Someone hotheaded. Someone with a taste for blood.”
The words fall out sharp. My pulse is pounding. I don’t know if it’s adrenaline, fury, or heartbreak masquerading as both.
I hear Maksim sigh on the other end.
“You’re serious.”
Dead serious.
“I’ll call you back in ten,” he says, his voice quieter now, edged with concern.
The line clicks.
***
I don’t wait for an introduction.
There are no names here. No rules. No mercy.
This place isn’t built for theatrics—it thrives on silence, blood, and broken bodies. The small crowd doesn’t cheer for favorites. They cheer for damage and more money in their pocket.
High above the cage, in the shadows behind one-way glass, a dozen men sit like kings in designer suits.
The real audience. The ones who keep this place alive.
Billionaires. War profiteers. Retired cartel bosses.
Men with too much money and not enough conscience—paying for ringside carnage the way others pay for golf memberships.
They sponsor the fights. Bet fortunes on who bleeds first. Who screams. Who dies.
They don’t just watch violence.
They feed off it.
And down here? The ones who fight?
Ex-convicts. Ex-soldiers. Men with nothing left to lose and who would kill for money, and other men who are just bloodthirsty and monsters like me.
I step into the cage—not a ring. There’s no canvas floor, no ropes. Just rusted steel beneath my boots and red stains that never dried. Blood clings to this place like memory.
The metal door slams behind me, and I’m locked in.
The other guy’s already inside.
I don’t know his name. I don’t care to.
He looks like he crawled out of a grave and brought the dirt with him. Bare-chested. Scarred. He’s grinning widely, like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone like me.
Good.
I don’t need a fair fight.
I need pain.
I want someone who’ll try to break me.
Then the bell rings.
The man circles me like a starving dog, teeth bared, eyes shining with madness. He wants a fight.
I want something worse.
He lunges. I don’t move.
His fist connects hard, right to my ribs. A second one drives into my side like a fucking freight train. Pain blooms white-hot. I welcome it.
Let him break me.
Let him tear me apart.
Just not the face.
Not the part he likes to touch with his shy, awkward fingers, like touching my face is something he finds very precious. His hands had brushed my jaw like I was made of glass.
So I guard it, subtly—just that one spot. Everything else is free.
Free to bleed.
Free to bruise.
My knees buckle under a harsh blow to my side, pain spiking hot behind my eyes. I stagger. The crowd roars above us.
The man grins widely. He thinks he’s winning.
Good. Let him. Let him feel like God.
Then—
“Alex!”
A voice tears over the crowd noise like a whip crack.
“What the hell are you doing? You wanna die in there, you fucking moron?!”
I smirk.
Viktor.
Of course, Maksim called him to come here because he thinks I’ve gone mad.
Maybe I have. Maybe I fucking have.
I glance up, just for a second—and that’s when it happens.
I miscalculate.
His fist slams right into my jaw.
A sickening crack echoes in my ears. My head snaps to the side—my neck aches.
And the world turns red, not the face you fucking bastard.
My fist crashes into his jaw so hard his head snaps sideways. Bone cracks. His lip splits like wet paper. He stumbles, but I’m already on him.
My elbow cracks into his temple.
My knee slams into his stomach.
The roar of the crowd swallows his scream.
But I don’t stop
I grab his throat and slam him to the floor.
Steel and blood beneath us.
Then I descend.
Fists rain down. One after another, again and again.
I don’t count. I don’t care.
The sound of knuckle to bone is like music in my ears, his face caves beneath my rage, skin splitting, teeth flying.
I hear something snap. I think it’s his nose. Maybe his cheekbone. Maybe both.
I see Lucas, trembling, crying into Tyler’s arms.
Lucas, flinching away from me like I’m the monster.
Lucas, eyes wide with terror—at me.
So now? Now this bastard becomes every fucking thing that’s ever hurt him.
I beat him until my fists are raw.
And I don’t stop.
Not even when the man beneath me is barely moving.
Not even when I feel Viktor’s arms around my chest, dragging me off, yelling in my ear that it’s over, that he’s gonna die.
Viktor shoves me again. “Jesus Christ, Alex. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I wipe the blood off my jaw with the back of my hand, still staring down at the unconscious man whom I desperately want to kill.
***
The faucet screeches as I twist it on, metal groaning like it’s protesting my touch.
Blood swirls down the sink in slow spirals. Thick. Deep red. It coats my knuckles, crusted under my nails, smeared halfway up my forearms.
I scrub harder.
It doesn’t come off easily.
I look up.
The mirror’s cracked in the corner, fluorescent light buzzing overhead.
And there I am, the monster behind the mess.
No bruises.
No split lips.
My jaw’s bleeding, though, a thin, shallow cut right along the edge where that bastard got lucky. Gritting my teeth, I flex my jaw, roll my neck, and exhale slowly — like it’ll help.
Behind me, the room is silent, but I can feel Viktor’s stare, sharp like a blade between my shoulder blades.
I peel off the white tank top Maksim tossed at me before I stepped into the cage; it’s soaked in sweat and blood. Then I pull my compression shirt over my head, fingers still aching from impact.
“God, I wish Anton weren’t out of the country for that business trip,” Maksim mutters under his breath. “I need to call him.”
It’s quiet. But not quiet enough.
I turn slowly, eyes cutting toward him, rage curling back into my throat like a second tongue.
“Why don’t you just fucking call all our family members at this point?” I snap. “Go ahead. Group call. Let’s all have a nice little family bonding while we’re at it.”
Viktor lets out a frustrated sigh, and Maksim doesn’t flinch at my outburst. He never does.
But there’s a flicker in his eyes. Not disappointment.
Worry.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I growl, grabbing a towel, wiping the water and leftover blood from my hands. “You’ve done worse.”