For a dead man walking, I achieved more than I’d hoped, but I still wasn’t fucking happy. Never had been. Never would be. Not with the shit living in my skull.
My eyes flew to survey the boxing area. Nestled between the MMA cage and Muay Thai ring, it gleamed red and black with padding and ropes. Giant spotlights hung from the ceiling, sending washes of light on all platforms while leaving the decadent seating around the perimeter in the dark.
Emotions were foreign to me, but if I had to guess at what burned in my chest, I would say survival.
Survival to become more than what I was. To create a life where I could hide in plain sight.
My back creaked as I leaned my elbows on the glass banister. Considering I hadn’t yet hit thirty, my body believed I was a pensioner.
That’s what you get with a life full of violence.
Most major bones had been broken at least once; I’d shed more pints of blood than flowed through my veins; I’d been trained in a skillset that only a few elite ever learned.
I had a past that made all of this possible. A past that would never leave me alone.
My eyes settled on the boxing match below; a glint of silver flashed just before a punch landed on the jaw of a well-built man with long hair tied in a knot.
The man went down.
Fast.
His body bounced on the springy floor, and the referee blew his shrill whistle, signalling the end of the fight.
My body switched from relaxed to revving in a second flat. Goddammed cheaters in my fucking club.
“That cocksucker just signed his death warrant.” My muscles bunched in pleasure, arching with energy at the thought of violence. It’d been a full week since someone cheated, and it was high time I taught someone a lesson.
Egotistical bastard to think he could come in and cheat. No way. Not in my house. My thoughts raced, shading everything with bloodlust.
You’re going to pay tonight, and I’m going to love making you scream.
“Death warrant? Nah, you’re mistaken, mate. He had the crap beat out of him. He’s just a little pussy. Can’t take a real man’s punch.” Oscar, my second in command, kept his eyes on the fight and reached to pat my shoulder.
The second his hand landed on my blazer, he stiffened then wrenched his touch away. “Shit.”
Yes, shit. I gritted my teeth, riding through the muscles spasms, barely keeping control. Locking eyes with him, I said, “You’ve worked with me for a full year and yet you still haven’t learned. Maybe I should throw you in the ring tonight.” Anger rippled through my veins, hot and swift—taunting me with images of pain and power. For a moment, I hoped he would touch me again, then I’d have an excuse. I could break one of my many laws and enjoy a bit of recreation. I could give in.
He dropped his arm quickly, fingers opening and closing. “Sorry. It’s hard not to when it’s second bloody nature. Everybody touches, mate—either in violence or love.” He frowned. “If you’re going to re-join the human race anytime soon, you have to get used to people patting you on the back or shaking your hand.”
My hands curled, wanting so much to punch someone. I needed a victim—someone I could pour all this shit inside, so I no longer had to live with it. I might have escaped my past, but I hadn’t escaped the memories. Oscar thought it was second nature to touch—not for me. My second nature had been reprogrammed so efficiently it overruled every conscious thought.
I may be human on the outside, but inside…inside I had no control.
“You’re heading into the shut up or get fucked territory again, Oz. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Do it again, and I’ll make sure you damn well remember to keep your hands to yourself.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re such a drama queen. God knows why I put up with your theatrics.”
A full year and I still hadn’t gotten used to his lack of fear around me. It wasn’t natural—not where I was from. It was why I kept him around to help maintain the illusion that I was like everybody else.
I forced the black thoughts away. “And you’re a cocky bastard who thinks he’s above harm.”
When I re-entered society, I did so on my own terms. I wasn’t there to make friends. I wasn’t there to take a wife or breed. My life path was one I’d trampled for far too long to deviate.
Not that I wanted any of those things. The only thing I craved was the thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of the hunt. And that’s why I could never be free.
Oscar shrugged. “I’ve told you time and time again. Go for a surf, mate. All that shit inside your pretty little head will disappear.”
Too fucking bad I didn’t know how to swim.
Spinning around, I refocused on the floor of Obsidian. Spread at my feet, housed in a cavernous room of the residence I’d built based on a childhood location, sat a ten million dollar investment.
I’d learned pretty early on that men were basic creatures.
Take away their suits and wives and jobs and responsibilities, and you’re left with a beast. A beast who wanted to spar and maim—to embrace their inner savage.
I offered rebellion and a chance to find themselves.
I gave them a place to fight.
The day I opened to exclusive members, I’d been prepared for a few interested parties. But I hadn’t been prepared for the overnight success or the worship of so many.
To be a part of my world, I requested three things:
Obedience.
Discipline.
Utmost secrecy.
Not to mention the obscene membership fees every month.
Oscar moved beside me, scanning the floors. “Don’t do anything idiotic. Everest won’t take accusations kindly. You know what happened last month with Praying Mantis.”
Last month Praying Mantis, also known as David Gorin, had cheated and ended up with a jaw vacant of teeth and a concussion. I’d only hit him once.
Oscar drummed his fingers on the glass balustrade. “If you go cursing and pointing blame, you’ll only bring—”
“Bring what? The wrath of the Wasps MC? Fuck ‘em. They can’t do anything worse than what others have already done.” I tensed. I hadn’t meant to say that. I’d meant to say I’d kick his ass and toss him from my club forever, but Oscar glanced at me sideways.
“If you told me what they’d done, then maybe I could agree. But seeing as you like to keep your aura of fucking mystery, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, and the veiled hints are really starting to grate on my bloody nerves.”
I cracked a rare smile. I liked that Oscar, with his blond hair and baby face, could stand up to me. Not many did.
In fact, I could list two men in my life who’d ever made me cower. The rest I didn’t give two shits about, and in turn, they feared a cold-blooded instrument who lived in the grey area with no right or wrong.
Oscar grinned, flexing his arms. “Knew I’d get you to smile eventually.”
Cricking my neck, trying to lubricate long abused joints, I muttered, “It’s time for me to have a little chat with the so-called unbeatable Mount Everest.” I’d hit my limit with his bullshit. I’d been looking for an excuse to throw him in the ring, and he just gave me one.
The only time anyone was allowed to touch me was during a fight. A punch to the gut didn’t hurt nearly as much as a tender touch to the cheek. I could handle that. A wallop was medicine; a caress was a curse.
“You never chat. You just hurt.” Oscar shrugged his blazer off and threw it onto the black couch behind us. The mezzanine level held a small bar, black sofa, and coffee table. Most nights were spent here overseeing and commanding. My office was kept strictly for me—locked and impenetrable—away from patron’s curious eyes.
“It’s what I do best. What I was made for.” Smoothing a hand through my longish hair, I startled when I found length and not a buzz cut. All my life I’d been forced to have it short—like a cadet. The strands had been red once upon a time, but as I grew older they turned to copper then to a bronzy black until nothing existed of the little boy I remembered.
“First etiquette lesson of the week. He owes me more fucking respect.” My fingers cracked as I clenched my fist.
Oscar nodded. “True enough.” Giving me a smile, we headed off down the black carpeted staircase. Every step had a silhouette of a fox embossed in silver thread. “You have a habit of demanding respect by the aid of physical abuse.”
Oscar was right. People owed me respect because I’d damned well earned it. Every scrap, every shred, I’d pulled with my bare hands from men who thought they could wipe the floor with me. I’d shown them I might live in a body scarred to shit, but I’d earned every single scar. Each one spoke of what I’d done, of what lurked in my past.
The sound of music disappeared as the howl of artic wind and icy prickles of snow stole me from present to past.
“Kill him, Operative Fox.”
I’d never disobeyed an order till now, but I shook my head. Already shitting myself at the retribution such a refusal would bring, but unable to pick up the blade and stab the kid in front of me.
Just a kid.
Just a kid.
I was just a kid myself. Barely into my teens and yet I was a seasoned killer.
“You know what we’ll do to you if you refuse.”
I knew, but it didn’t change anything. I slammed to my knees in the snow, hating the shrieking winds and negative temperatures. Tonight would be a bitch.
“Throw him in the pit until he learns his lesson.”
The memory exploded into splinters, stabbing my brain with an illusion of the present and past mixing for a brief moment.
Shaking my head, I turned to Oscar. “Call Dawson and his security team. I want Everest and his minions hauled out after this.”
We paused at the base of the stairs. “Will do.” Oscar raised his hand for me to high five. “Here’s to dishing out respect.”
Idiot.
I didn’t move, just switched from personable to my old self; the self that’d been trained and sculpted by hatred and discipline.
The click from normal to killer happened instantaneously.
Oscar hastily withdrew. “Crikey. You need to get over that shit, Fox. It ain’t natural.”
When did I ever say I was fucking natural?
Ignoring him, I strode from the shadows and into the organized chaos. The rings were operating at full capacity tonight. Waiting lists hung beside the scoreboard with many a denied request for a session.
The Muay Thai ring had been reserved for the evening by the Stingrays. A group of men who looked tough, but had the art of a real group of fighters. They weren’t there just to draw blood but also to improve their craft.
I wanted to go head-to-head with their top guy, a man named Corkscrew, but I hadn’t found a reason to get him in the ring—yet. But I would. It was only a matter of time before he pissed me off.
As I passed, my eyes narrowed on the very man I wanted to fight. He stood with his arm around a stunning Asian woman while touching another delectable creature dressed in gold and silver. Women meant nothing to me. I neither wanted them nor needed them. But the instant my eyes landed on thick mahogany waves draping over porcelain shoulders, I wanted with a ferocity that I’d never felt before.
It was as if all the coldness in my blood suddenly erupted into fucking steam, hissing through my veins. My back locked as I fought the urge to stare. In a flash, I memorized her face, catalogued her weaknesses, archived her mannerisms. Medium height and lithe muscles, she had just enough curves to entice, but not enough to call her voluptuous. She held herself stiff while her face split into a smile, hiding her true thoughts.
The longer I looked the more I noticed: weakness, anger, strength, resilience, but beneath it all, the same raging confusion that lurked inside me. The same helplessness for a life we couldn’t do anything about.