Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-nine
DAVE
He was still counting. Four fights now, four times they’d shoved Christian back into that cage, bleeding and increasingly wild-eyed, like some rabid animal existing only to be broken.
He didn’t know how Christian was staying on his feet. They weren’t giving him enough time to recover before sending him back in. And each time, Christian went not because he wanted to but because Dave was still in their hands.
He hated sitting and watching, being the reason Christian was still fighting. But he didn’t look away. Not once.
Christian was exhausted. Dave could see it in the economy with which he was moving.
His arms and chest were streaked with blood and sweat, and his hair hung in wet strings around his face, but there was still savagery in his eyes, and the will—oh God, they might destroy his body but no one could ever take Christian’s will from him. He’d die snarling at them.
It hurt to watch. Dave was sure it hurt more than if he were the one taking the physical blows, but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t abandon Christian like that.
With one last gargantuan effort, Christian locked in the armbar, tight and brutal.
His opponent thrashed, then slapped the mat, tapping out.
Christian released him and rose to his feet, victorious for a fourth time.
He tossed his head back, his hair flicking in an arc picked out by the bright lights above the cage, and grinned defiantly into the closest camera, blood trickling down his chin from a split lip.
Dave was on his feet, but he hadn’t got more than five painful yards before a hand bit into his shoulder, pinning him in place.
He breathed long and slow, trying to summon back some of those centering exercises he’d thought were part of him after all these years.
He couldn’t. He couldn’t think of anything except the way Christian was standing, so defiant, but exhausted.
Even he couldn’t keep going like this. Surely they’d see that and let him go.
Christian had accepted a towel he was passed and moved over toward the area that had been set aside for the fighters, with everything there they might need—water, food, and a massive first-aid kit.
He upended one of the bottles of water over his face, then blotted it off with the towel before he raised his head and his eyes sought Dave’s across the room.
Dave nodded at him. He didn’t know what he was trying to say, other than that he was there and Christian had his support. Always.
It seemed to firm Christian’s resolve. He took the cap off another bottle of water with a single easy twist, gulped a few mouthfuls, and then strode across the room to where Tony was standing, not six feet away from Dave. They were close enough for Dave to hear every word.
“If one fight was worth ten grand, I just earned you forty. We’re leaving now.”
“Not yet.” Another figure prowled forward, and there was no mistaking Barton’s presence and power.
Dave froze, and the tension in the room ratcheted up.
“One more,” Barton said. “You go down in this next fight, and you’ve paid your debt.”
Christian was staring at him. “You want me to throw the fight?”
“And you better make it look good.”
He turned and stalked away.
Christian shook his head, as if he was coming up from being underwater. “You want me to throw the fight?” he said to Tony. It was as if he’d heard the words but they made no sense.
“The audience is going to have you pegged as someone who can’t lose by now,” Tony said. Which meant, Dave knew, that they’d all bet on him winning. If he lost, someone would clean up very nicely indeed.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No. I’m not doing it. I don’t go down for anyone.” Christian’s eyes were furious.
“I don’t think you understand, Taylor. You do this, you get to walk away, no bad feeling between you and this pack. If you don’t do it…” Tony’s eyes flicked straight to where Dave was standing. “Hell, be a real tragedy if your boyfriend had another accident up on those cliffs, wouldn’t it?”
One second Tony was smirking. The next, Christian had him by the throat.
“You don’t ever threaten Dave.” It was gritted into Tony’s ear, meant for him alone, but Dave heard every word.
Christian let go just as two of the others stepped forward, tension rippling through the room like a gun cocking. He’d made his point.
Tony slammed him back into the wall, fury in his face.
Christian glared at him. “I’ll fight again but I’m not going down.”
“You’ll do as you’re fucking told.” Tony’s voice was harsh. “You know what happens if you don’t.”
Christian tore his defiant glare from Tony and looked at Dave, who held his gaze. Dave didn’t want to be hurt. He really didn’t want that. But he also knew Christian. Deliberately making himself vulnerable and weak was the one thing he could never do. It would destroy him.
Some selfish, scared part of him wanted Christian to throw the fight anyway.
But even as the thought formed, he knew he couldn’t be part of making Christian do that to himself.
He didn’t even know if Christian could do it.
So he just poured his love for Christian into his eyes and willed him to feel it.
To know that, whatever happened, it wasn’t his fault.
Christian’s eyes grew dark and hollow, and he turned on his heel to head back to the fighters’ area. Dave was dragged back to his seat in the corner, and for God’s sake, he’d had enough of being treated like a sack of potatoes.
He kept his eyes fixed on that familiar, stocky figure, watched him drinking more water and eating a banana as he made the most of the thirty minutes he was allowed between fights. Dave was watching him so closely he didn’t notice the guy approaching until he spoke. “Raf, Dave.”
Raf grunted, while Dave looked up in surprise. “Justin,” he said, relief sweeping through him at the sight of a friendly face.
Relief was followed by doubt as he remembered Christian’s words in the motel room. He didn’t know if he could trust Justin. But then again, if Justin was willing to help, he was the only person in this whole place Dave could even maybe trust. And right now, they had nothing to lose.
“You want to take a break, Raf? I’ll stay with him,” Justin said.
Raf melted away into the crowd, leaving Dave able to breathe for the first time in hours. “They want Christian to throw this one,” he said. “He won’t. He can’t.”
Justin’s eyes were somber on his. “He’s gonna have to. People are pissed. We’ve been planning this for months, and he nearly screwed it all up on the first night of business.”
“But he was only asked that day if he wanted to be part of it,” Dave said, his voice raised in frustration. Christian had let them down, but the share of blame falling on him wasn’t fair. “How the hell is it all his fault?”
“You think we planned this in a week? This took work, Dave, and you don’t get a second shot at a first impression.
And then Christian shows up and he’s good, he’s real good.
So they flip everything to build around him.
Then he vanishes,” Justin said, short and annoyed.
“Yeah, we went back to Plan A and made it work, but he screwed us over. There’s no jobs here, no future.
This is the pack’s chance to make a decent living for once, and he screwed us over. ”
“So that makes what you’re doing right?”
Justin shook his head, his eyes glancing away across the room to where Christian was now doing T’ai Chi-like exercises. “Can’t say I agree with how they’ve gone about it,” he said, “but I understand the anger.”
“And if he doesn’t throw the fight?” Dave didn’t know whether to believe Tony’s words.
He’d sounded like some sort of Mafia gangster—or at least, how they talked in movies—but the fact remained that this was their town and no one would ask any questions if two visiting shifters disappeared.
And if Christian was right that they’d killed Jesse’s pack, another murder or two certainly wouldn’t trouble them.
“Let me look at your leg,” Justin said.
“What?”
“Your leg. We might need to move fast.”
That was answer enough. Life was hard in a pack like this, which made death easy.
Tendrils of real fear coiled in his stomach.
Whatever was coming next, it made sense for Dave to be in the best situation for meeting it, so he let Justin—who’d learned first aid as a Boy Scout, apparently—take his boot off and examine his ankle.
Sick pain stirred in Dave’s gut, cold sweat prickling down his spine as Justin carefully explored the injury. But even then, he couldn’t take his eyes from Christian. Stubborn, defiant Christian, who was facing an impossible decision.
Whatever he chose, the result would break him.
CHRISTIAN
Fury burned hot in his veins as he started his warm-up for the next fight. The fight he would win, because losing was not an option. Losing would never be an option again. It was how he could look in the mirror every morning, knowing he would never again be weak or vulnerable.
Every time he won a fight, it was like he was taking something back that had been stolen from him. If he were to deliberately lose this one, he would be surrendering every inch of ground he’d gained so painfully over the years. He’d die before he did that.
He stretched out his quads with extra care.
He’d watched Eagle fight and knew he was like an eel at dealing with fists, but a high kick that went under his guard could still take him down.
And he was going to take that big bastard down.
Except that if he did… His breath hitched as helplessness welled up in him.
He couldn’t risk it. He had to take the dive.
Had to, because otherwise they’d hurt Dave. Or worse.
If he gave in, if he surrendered, he’d lose himself. But if he didn’t, he’d lose Dave.
He took a deep breath, and his throat burned. One way or another, his life would end in the next ten minutes.
Before stepping into the cage, he took one final look over at Dave, who was gazing back at him. His eyes were blue and calm like the summer sky. Steady in a way Christian had never been.
His chest tightened. This man knew him. Had always known him. And he was still here, looking at Christian like he was worth it all, even this.
That was the moment Christian knew. There wasn’t a choice to make. There never had been.
He turned and walked into the cage.