Page 3 of Possession

I also don’t like whatever is going on with Frank and the guard. I rip my eyes away from the dark ones watching me to see the fat stack of cash that Frank hands over. The guard is taller than Frank and better built. If it weren’t for the guy on the bench, he’d look big. He’d look scary as shit too in all that black with a gun at his hip—because it’s becoming more and more obvious that all of this is highly organized. Professional.

This is some kind of mafia shit.

I need to get the hell out of here.

“So what’s my guarantee?” Frank asks.

“You’re free to test it out, Prescott.”

My eyes jump to the guard’s hand as he opens a pocket of his cargo pants and shows Frank the capped tip of a syringe.

Frank edges back. “You know you won’t get the rest until I cash out my bet.”

“I suggest you fuck off, Prescott, before I lose my patience like you’ve lost all your money.”

I scuttle out of the way as Frank almost backs into me. I don’t need to be told to move. There’s nothing I want more than to get out of here.

Away from Frank.

Away from that guard.

Away from the man in the collar, whose eyes track me all the way to the door.

TWO

Beast

I grunt in annoyance as the door closes and blocks my view of my prey.

I think that’s what he is to me anyway. I don’t know how else to understand my instincts anymore. And what else should he be but prey with that pretty face and those big, lost eyes?

There’s certainly no doubt about what I am, and he recognized it instantly. Of course, most people do. Everyone knows a predator when they feel its gaze.

Not that I get out much to stare at people. Since Oscar Crowley bought me from the prison however many months ago, I’ve seen no one but my handlers except on fight nights.

“He catch your eye, Beast?”

I don’t answer. I never do. I don’t even remember the last time I spoke. I just keep staring at the door where my prey vanished.

“He sure was pretty.”

Growling, I turn my gaze on Briggs and rise from the bench. I’m barely on my feet before my body jolts, my muscles freezing as pain rips through me, shaking me inside until I can’t think. I can’t even see the locker room around me or Briggs in front of me.

This is a thing you learn in dark places: reality can be reshaped in a second. Right now, I have no reality but the electric current tearing me apart while simultaneously holding me rigidly upright.

I gasp when it vanishes. With the shock no longer locking my muscles, I crash to the floor. I’m on my hands and knees. I hate being on my hands and knees. I also hate the sound I’m making. It means weakness. Vulnerability.

And that means danger.

Sure enough, something pricks my neck while I’m down. Briggs injects me as fast as he can, sending whatever drug he’s hit me with searing into my veins so he can step back quickly.

“Get up, Beast. It’s time.” A boot thunks into my ribs. It’s not a hard kick, but I’m not ready for it, not after the shock collar. I fall to my elbows.

That’s unacceptable. I don’t bow. I won’t. I don’t get to have many boundaries, but that’s one of them.

I get to my feet. I could kill Briggs right now. He’s handling me alone, which he’s not supposed to do on a fight night. In order to drug me, I guess. I don’t feel anything yet, but I’m sure I will. This sort of shit happens all the time in fights. It happened to me several times in the prison before being taken to the arena.

So I know better than to waste time fucking with him. I head to the door. I want my fight. It’s the only outlet I have.

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