Page 54 of Harley & Her Ferals

The Pits of Hell, The Alpha Underworld

“We’re fighting to free you tonight, Fer.” I rest my forehead against Feral’s, as we stand in the center of the octagon shaped cage. It already stinks of blood and sweat. “Once we win, we can finally pay off your contract. Then you won’t be in debt to Dad.”

Feral nods.

The spotlights are blinding on the octagon shaped cage, which is in the center of the vast warehouse.

The warehouse is named The Pits of Hell, where the fights take place.

The walls are painted scarlet with rough graffiti sprayed over them:UNDERWORLD COMBAT ALPHAS.

This is Dad’s personal fight club.

Sometimes, Dad allows the rich assholes who watch to have a go. It’s funny to watch these corrupt politicians, billionaire bros, and cops beat the shit out of each other…badly.

They think that it proves how big their knots are that they can survive a round here.

They often forget that in the Pits of Hell there are no rules: You can bite, eye gouge, and head butt. Even groin shots are allowed.

R.I.P their knots.

Large ventilators suck both pheromones and scents out of the room to stop them affecting fighters.

It makes my skin crawl to sniff and be unable to smellsomething.

The octagon itself is raised on a platform with only one gate in and out. The walls are high, mesh, and wound with barbed wire. They’re a weapon themselves.

I’m wearing red shorts and bra. My hair has been tied tightly back with a sleek, black cat clip.

My ring name isCat.

I’m fast.

The fastest.

I’m also the smallest and lightest. But Romilly has taught me a way to turn that to my advantage.

It’s earned me the name, Cat.

My strength is that I may seem to only be playing with my rival, as a cat does with a mouse. Yet I still kill them in the end, or while they’re escaping me, they don’t notice the ambush from Feral.

My makeup, which River helps me with, plays up the whole villainous Catwoman vibe. My eyes are painted with charcoal gray eyeshadow. My lipstick is purple.

My long nails match my lips but with a twist. These fake nails have been developed by Dad. They’re a secret weapon.

I can use them to claw and slash like a real cat.

I rest my claws carefully on Feral’s back.

Feral looks fearsome, a savage Devil Alpha.

Like me, he’s barefoot.

He’s dressed in red shorts. His chest and back has been smeared with paint like blood but artfully in a way that draws attention to his muscles.

His smoky eyeshadow has been darkened. River has made Feral’s eyeliner even more dramatic.

Feral is thrumming with the intensity of being only moments before a fight.

---