Page 1 of From Best To Bested

Chapter One

“Our champion has done it again!” Warden Sadler announced as Roman brought down his second opponent for the night.

Both audiences roared as Roman strutted around the arena. Less an arena and more a pit. Not the actual Pit that Roman had heard rumors of, but the concrete floor was unforgiving to anyone unfortunate enough to fall. But as champion, Roman didn’t fall. He learned very quickly if he wanted to survive in Marlow Penitentiary and survive well, then he could never falter.

He kept his head held high for a moment, brushing a bandaged hand along his sweaty brow and knocking aside his shaggy brown bangs. This let the audience in the balcony above bask in Roman’s face, letting them see the pride he wore as their reigning champion. They were the wealthy elite who funded every corrupt machination at Marlow Penitentiary.

Inmates called them the Lawless Authority, an absurd name in Roman’s mind, but quicker than “rich snobs who indulged in illegal fights to satiate their own lust for bloodshed and crime,” which was basically the lawless component of their name. The authority came from the fact they dictated things in the arena, bankrolling winners, sponsoring events, paying to shut up anyone who annoyed them, and so much more Roman tried to avoid when it came to the audience in the balcony above.

The second audience was more of a crowd that circled him like vultures, held in check by the guards who attended the late-night rumbles. This group was honestly held more in check by Roman and his unrelenting show of dominance.

“You call that a challenge?” Roman roared, tightening the gauze on his right hand before pointing an indiscriminate finger at the crowd. “I thought you lot wanted to come for my title.”

The crowd had nearly a hundred inmates surrounding Roman from all sides. He ran the length of the makeshift arena, strutting close to the inmates and demanding a new challenger with his gaze. When that didn’t work, he taunted them again.

“Is this all you offer?” Roman pointed to his unconscious opponent. “Have you all really just given up?”

In order to maintain the role of champion, he needed to defend his title, and the authority above favored him when he won consecutive lineups during the Challenger’s Chance, an open mic, so to speak, for opponents to face Roman Grayson.

Most of the inmates here had fought and lost against Roman at least once. Few came down here just to watch, though some prioritized the stakes of the winning pots over the combat itself. Roman didn’t care about the profit. Yes, he savored every penny thrown into his commissary, and every dollar added to his off-the-books account controlled by the warden himself, but what Roman wanted when he stepped into the arena was the power that came with his title.

At twenty-two, he felt more powerful than anyone else here, but sometimes, he still remembered the frightened twenty-year-old college kid who’d nearly left the world of violence behind him. Roman thought about the years he spent at university, the fighting days he put behind him after he learned he’d never go pro, the illusion of a real future with a career in whatever he wanted, the chances of leaving shit like this behind him,and then remembered it only took one fucking mistake to ruin everything.

Champions didn’t make mistakes. They couldn’t afford it. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow it.

That was why he never wavered as champion. A weak champion, one too afraid to face his foes, would be dealt with outside the arena in an empty corridor with a guard who turned the other way. A cocky champion, one too brazen with competition, would end up face-first on the concrete. It took everything Roman had to maintain some semblance of a balance. It kept inmates in line, kept them off his back, kept them away from as many of the young men, the elderly men, and generally anyone too weak or naïve or pathetic to protect themselves.

Roman didn’t care to be a hero—not that folks lined up to call him such things—life had beaten that out of him years ago. But he didn’t like cruelty for the sake of being vicious, and his reign as champion at least kept the worst of it out of Marlow Penitentiary. He didn’t delude himself into thinking everyone wanted to hold hands and thank Roman for his valiant efforts, but he knew after breaking a few jaws and reminding the world he was the strongest motherfucker here that it helped others breathe a bit easier.

“Come on,” Roman shouted, adding a taunting edge to his voice. “Is there anyone bold enough to step up during the Challenger’s Chance?”

He ran the length of the audience, walking in circles, stepping close to inmates, daring them to strike. Sometimes, he could tease a member into a blitz attack. No one fought fair in life—a lesson Roman carried for years before he ended up incarcerated—so he encouraged the behavior when directed toward him. Roman could take it. Roman could take anything anyone threw at him. He could stand tall and beat down anythreat. He could survive and hold his title because that was how Roman stayed safe.

“I will!”

Roman smirked, turning around to take in the sight of his final opponent for the night.

Maxwell fucking King.

“They planned this well,” Roman thought, taking a deep breath.

He’d pissed around overexerting himself during the first two matches of the night, and now the gangs had plucked Maxwell King to finish off the Challenger’s Chance, which was open for anyone to compete and dare to take the champion’s title. Maxwell was 6’8” and nearly a foot taller than Roman, who hovered an inch or two below 6’0” depending on how much leeway he gave himself on measurements. Maxwell also had biceps thicker than Roman’s neck and was built like a fucking Mack truck.

The title of champion came with a double-edged sword. Everyone fell in line to obey Roman’s will; it afforded protection in the form of fear to him and anyone he wanted to protect, but it also opened Roman up to enemies everywhere. Most were too frightened to make a move on him, in or out of the arena, but they all waited with bated breath for his defeat.

Until Roman Grayson arrived at Marlow Penitentiary, the role of champion had never lasted more than two months. Roman had held onto the title for over a year. Almost fifteen months now, and he accepted at least three challenges during the weekly events, sometimes adding a second or third fight night in a week depending on the season, and he never once lost.

As Roman squared up against the man more than a foot taller with easily a hundred fifty pounds on him, Roman reminded himself the only way to stay on top was to never fucking lose.

Roman had faced Maxwell before in the arena. Roman also had the misfortune of facing Maxwell once outside the arena. Maxwell didn’t take his first loss well and tried to gut Roman inside the weight room, which also ended up being the solution to an armed blitz attack where Maxwell sought revenge. Roman had bashed Maxwell’s face in with a twenty-pound dumbbell and knew Maxwell held bitter resentment for Roman ever since, along with a crooked nose, five missing teeth, and an indent from the piece of his cheek they couldn’t restore.

But while Roman had exploited his surroundings during the attempted alleged assault—the warden’s words, not Roman’s—he didn’t have that luxury in the arena. If Roman wanted to beat Maxwell again, he had to fight him the same way he had the first time they crossed paths.

The difference being that Maxwell only saw a plucky dumb kid who got lucky to land champion the last time they faced off. Now, Maxwell knew what to expect when stepping into the arena against Roman, and Roman knew the terrible disadvantage that put him at during this official rematch.

With the ring of the bell and the roar of the crowd, Roman got to work. Immediately, he moved in for light strikes anywhere not packed with a mountain of muscle. In order to beat Maxwell, Roman had to rely on bug bites over bulldozer blows. Keeping his stamina in check, Roman remembered his breathing and weaved around Maxwell. One hit, one real punch, would knock the breath from his chest, and Roman couldn’t afford to give up any tiny edge he had. Maxwell would wear out first. As the man raged with powerful swings of his fists, Roman could already see the toll it took. Little by little, Roman let Maxwell whittle down his own reserves while Roman taunted him with futile strikes.

“I’m going to fucking kill you.” Maxwell nearly clocked Roman, stepping in closer than Roman anticipated and locking him against the crowd.

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