Chapter 9 Asher
ASHER
{One month ago}
The steady trickle of blood and salty sweat blinded my left eye as I drove my fist into the Alpha's jaw again. The impact vibrated up my arm, adding another layer of pain to the symphony already playing through my body.
It felt so damn good.
Electric.
With each brutal fist that slammed into my body, I clawed at life. Every time I rammed my knuckles into my opponent, I breathed easier, even with rib fractures and bruised lungs.
The warmth of a fire faded too fast.
Fucking left me hollow.
Death-defying stunts didn’t get my heart racing either. Though, they should. Sticking the landing was growing harder. My focus was so damn foggy. My body didn’t respond quick enough. Everything about me was on the fritz, and the damage was spreading like a wildfire.
Losing my confidence invited fear. In a strange way, it felt amazing.
When was the first time I’d felt fear? Probably finding my mom overdosed on the bathroom floor, bottle of pills spilled out across the tile. Blue pills. Against white tile. Still so damn vivid. Even though I was a snot nosed kid at the time, not even three feet tall yet, I remembered every detail.
When was the last time I really felt afraid? Beaten to a pulp by my fifth Alpha foster dad because the APS check was late. That was before I got bigger, before I got stronger.
But even a weak ass kid can turn on the gas and light a match.
Blowing up that motherfucker’s house got me a one-way ticket to a joint facility with other lost causes. I’d been heading there anyways. Every foster home that took me in got hit by an ‘accidental’ fire. The Alpha orphanage was better. That’s where I’d met my pack, my brothers-in-pain.
I dodged a haymaker, then shuffled to the side when he rushed me, ready to shove me up against the ropes. If he got me there, he’d brutalize my body with dozens of quick jabs to the stomach.
This was the last match of the night. Two in the morning. The underground fight club heaved around us, a pit of shadows and shouting faces rendered faceless by the single spotlight above the ring. My opponent staggered but didn't fall. Tough bastard. I'd give him that.
Metallic flavor danced on my tongue. I spat a mouthful of crimson-tinged saliva onto the canvas and circled him, ignoring the throbbing pulse of my swollen eye and the sharp stitch in my side that suggested a cracked rib or two.
The other Alpha—his name became irrelevant the second this battle began—mirrored my movements.
His chest heaved with exertion, but his eyes remained sharply calculating.
In rivulets of red, blood trickled from a gash above his left brow creating a crimson half mask.
The sight might be terrifying to someone less desensitized to violence.
"That all you got, pretty boy?" he taunted, his voice a gravely mumble pushed past swollen lips.
I didn't bother responding. Words were wasted energy, and I needed every ounce I had left.
I hadn't planned on fighting tonight. I'd been restless at the compound, prowling from room to room like a caged animal while the others disappeared into their own distractions.
Xander had been three drinks in when I left, staring at the wall like it held answers to questions he hadn't asked yet.
Kane was buried under one of his project cars, cursing at inanimate objects. Nitro and Fallon were already gone.
And me? I didn’t have anything on my burn list. No company to punish. No condemned building with a demolition date I could treat as a plaything. And kissing fire against my own flesh just didn’t resonate tonight.
So, I'd taken my bike, let the engine scream beneath me, and somehow ended up here—in this place reeking of bodily fluid, liquor, and smoke where emotionally damaged Alphas came to prove something to themselves.
There was nothing legal about this blood bath. In broad daylight, Alphas could get arrested for maiming one another. In the darkness, no one would stop the flying fists and the cash bets. Hell, there were even half a dozen cops in the audience tonight.
The crowd's roar rose as I dodged a wild haymaker, countering with a sharp jab to my opponent's ribs. Something audibly cracked. A cruel, satisfied smile warped my mouth as the other Alpha gave a harsh gasp and rocked back a few steps, his palm automatically flattening against the point of impact. I didn’t give him a chance to recover.
I rushed forward, closing the gap between us, and landed an uppercut that snapped his head back.
Blood arced through the air. My vision narrowed down to those dozens of bright red droplets which seemed to catch light from above and float in slow motion. When time sped up, I saw the undeniable expression of defeat on his face.
"Finish him!" someone screamed from the darkness beyond the ring.
I recognized that voice. One of my regular fans.
An Omega that wanted more than a good show; he wanted to touch and taste.
I’d never obliged. He wasn’t my type, though I didn’t mind making him think he might have a piece someday.
I got to enjoy his unveiled desire and the pleasure of denying satisfaction.
DemonX drew attention everywhere we went.
It wasn’t hard to find a partner for a night, even in a strange city.
But this bullshit—overeager, wasted fans with too many miles on their bodies—didn’t do it for me anymore.
The sex was performative. A show stunt gone stale.
I wanted something fresh. Anything else was a repetitive waste of goddamn time.
Oh, I’d tried whips, handcuffs, toys. Nothing hit the spot.
Maybe I’d ask Fallon for a few ideas… though he didn’t look very satisfied lately either, despite spending night after night in one of his skanky ass clubs.
Or, I thought derisively, Eros will finally come through.
Fat fucking chance.
I gave myself a full body shake. Here, with the scent of metallic blood and salty sweat surrounding me, I could forget all my issues.
I was stripped down to just Asher. Bones and flesh. No pretense.
My opponent recovered because I didn’t act quickly enough.
He rammed forward, driving his shoulder into my midsection.
He pushed me like a football player pushing a sled dummy across the field.
He took me by surprise, and I couldn’t plant my feet in time to stop him from slamming me against the ropes.
Agony bloomed white-hot and vicious from my suspected cracked rib. I welcomed it. Pain was honest; it didn't lie or disappoint or leave you wondering what the hell you were doing with your life.
I brought my elbow down on the back of his neck. Once. Twice. A brutal third time. Finally, his grip loosened. Then I shoved him away, creating space to breathe through the fire in my side.
We were evenly matched in skill and strength.
Most fights would've been determined by now, but we'd been going for—what?
Fifteen minutes? Twenty? A fucking half hour?
Time blurred under the blinding spotlight, measured only in ragged breaths, pounding heartbeats and the next unforgiving punch thrown.
But I had one advantage he didn't: I didn't care if I walked out of this ring.
That kind of indifference created a special kind of endurance. I was angry enough to fight until my heart gave out if I had to. I wasn't even sure what I was angry about anymore—just that the feeling had signed a long-term lease and taken up residence in my marrow.
The Alpha lunged again, telegraphing his move a split second too early. That was all I needed. I sidestepped, letting momentum carry him past me, then delivered a punishing blow to his kidney. He grunted, stumbled, turned—and walked straight into my right hook.
The impact crunched my own knuckles, shook up my arm to rattle my teeth, and sent a fresh wave of fluids into the air. The Alpha’s eyes unfocused briefly, and I knew I had him.
I saw the moves in my head before I acted them out.
Three more rapid jabs to his already bruised ribs.
A right cross that connected with his cheekbone.
I snapped my hand back, guarding against a possible retaliation.
But he was already too far gone.
His legs buckled.
With one final uppercut—all my weight behind it, driving upward from my legs through my core and into my fist—he collapsed like a marionette doll after having his strings cut.
The knockout blow.
The ref started counting, but it was unnecessary. My opponent wasn't getting up. He was an unconscious bag of bruises on the sweat-slick canvas floor.
The crowd erupted, money changing hands as bets were settled. The ref grabbed my wrist, tried to raise it in victory as he shouted something I couldn't hear over the din. My arm was limp and heavy, resisting being raised. Still, the ref kept forcing it skyward.
I felt nothing. No triumph. No satisfaction. No relief. The anger that had driven me here still simmered beneath my skin, undiminished by violence.
I pulled my arm from the ref's grasp, ignoring his surprised look.
The chants of my name—or rather, my DemonX persona which was realer than any bullshit on a birth certificate—bounced off the ceiling and walls.
Hands reached for me as I pushed between the ropes and dropped from the stage.
Anxiety began to buzz through me as bodies pressed close, voices overlapping:
"That was fucking savage, man!"
"Sign my shirt!"
"Are the other DemonX guys here?"
"You heading to The Boiler Room after?"
Someone tossed a black bra at me. I reflexively caught it with one hand, glanced at it, then tossed it back into the crowd.
“Asher, baby, I’m all yours tonight!”
Forcing my way through the crowd, I kept my gaze fixed on the exit sign's red glow. Someone tried to press a drink into my hand, so I curled my fingers into fists. I’d given them a good show. I’d spilled blood and sweat for their entertainment. They always wanted more.
Pushing through the side door, I entered the dimly lit hallway beyond and swung a right.
The locker room was empty, thank fuck. I collapsed onto one of the scratched benches, the adrenaline ebbing and leaving delicious aching in its wake.
My hands shook as I unwrapped the tape, revealing split knuckles and sickly bruises spreading across my skin.
I needed the highest of highs. I needed a year of sleep. I needed complete fucking silence. I needed—
What? What the hell did I need?
There was a hollow space inside me that fighting couldn't fill, that fame couldn't touch, that even DemonX—the closest thing to family I'd ever had—couldn't reach. Now that the shouts of the crowd had faded, the emptiness was screaming at full volume.
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and let my head hang.
Blood slowly dripped.
It dripped from my face to the floor.
If I moved my head slightly, the drops fell faster. If I stayed perfectly still, they slowed.
A small pool formed between my feet. I watched it spread, fascinated by its expansion.
Maybe I was just bleeding out slowly, from some wound I couldn't see or name.
Maybe I was spreading across the floor, the sum of me left in a wet puddle.
I’d rather burn to death than bleed out.