Page 6 of Dmitri

One.

Fortunately, that’s all it took to knock the bastard out. And now that I’ve had a taste of fresh blood, I’m a shark circling, desperate for more. If I don’t get this aggression out of me fast, I’m scared I’ll lose my head.

Violence is like a drug to me. A high. A release. A poison I’ve suffered from since I was a kid and now have a craving for.

After I took care of the now blacklisted member, I quickly rushed down to my dungeon and busted my knuckles on a punching bag. When that didn’t come close to taking the edge off, I cut my thigh with a knife. Still didn’t help. But I knew better than to go back and be around the club’s offender. I’d kill him. So Ryker and Vault hauled his unconscious ass out of the club while I tried reeling in my control to no avail.

And going to a cage fight tonight is going to open pandora’s box again. If Ryker and the other’s find out I’m doing this…Shit. If only the shame I should feel for my actions was strong enough to make me turn around.

But that’s not going to happen.

I have no shame.

Look, I know Ryker would fight me if I asked. We’ve thrown a lot of punches over the years, for various therapeutic reasons, but this isn’t one of those times where a split lip or concussion can fix me. I need more.

I need blood to pour and bones to crack. Even if it’s my own.

Ryker, Vault, or even Knox would never take it that far. Trust me, I’ve begged.

Cage fighting in an underground club I’ve belonged to since I was sixteen is the only way to get what I need right now.

Pulling up to the abandoned warehouse dubbed the Scrapyard, I turn the engine off and immediately hear the riotous hollers from inside. Storming in, I head straight for the cage in the center, tearing my shirt off as I go. It smells the same as it always has in this run-down joint. The coppery scent of blood, musky sweat, cold metal, and wet concrete—along with booze and smokes—it’s the smell of my extremely short childhood.

I’m home.

Jerking the cage door open, not giving a flying fuck aboutthe two fighters already swinging, I lock onto the first man I reach, and smash my head against his. He stumbles, dazed. The other guy jumps on my back and punches my side.

Cute.

I spin around and smash him against the fence. He barks a bunch of nonsense in my ear, and I pry him off my back, flipping him over my shoulder before slamming him against the floor. While he’s busy trying to catch his breath, I punch his face over and over and over and over and ov—

Someone peels me off the poor, limp bastard.

I rip out of their hold and go for the second guy in the cage again. I can’t hear the crowd. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t think straight. Everything’s a red haze and I’m getting tunnel vision.

I square up and stare at my opponent. “Hit me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His left hook lands square in my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Fuuuuck that felt good. “Again.”

He hits me in the gut this time.

“Again!”

Roaring with anger, fear, or, for all I know, frustration, he barrels into me and drives me backwards until my spine hits our enclosure. The cold steel does nothing to soothe my burn. He jabs me in the ribs, the gut, the face, and kicks my thigh. It hurts.

It also awakens.

“My turn,” I growl, sucking in ragged breaths. My opponent doesn’t stand a chance against me. It doesn’t matter if we’re a match in weight and height. It doesn’t matter that I’ve given him plenty of free shots.Hedoesn’t matter.

Fury blooms in my veins. I jab him in the kidneys, the face, the head, his spine. We’re a tornado in the ring and I don’t let up until several men peel me off his limp body. They back off me once I go willingly, and they leave the cage in a hurry.

“Who else?” I look around the Scrapyard for anotherwilling opponent. I’m sure I look like a lunatic. I definitely feel like one. Finally, after so long, I feel alive again. I’m myself.

And I’m not done yet.

“Who else will fight me?”

A bulky man steps up to the challenge. The crowd roars and blood swishes in my ears. We circle each other, and he gives me a run for my money. The numbness and detachment I’ve lived with for years starts subsiding as my red-hazed world comes into crystal clear focus. I drive him back. Land a few jabs. He spins out and puts me in a headlock, his fist making my face its only target. He hits the bullseye several times. Each blow echoes in my skull.

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