Page 62 of Filthy Royal

His throat went tight. “’Cause we’re a team.” He tapped the canister to his chest, right by his heart. “Each time I drink, I’ll think of you cheering me on. And the next time you see me, I’ll be the winner of this tournament, and you’ll be mine. And I’ll be yours.”

She smiled wide and took a step back. “It sounds almost too good to be true.”

He moved to the grate. “Believe it.”

15

DAMIEN

Damien dodged an elbow strike and rolled to his side, leaving a bloody trail before he surfaced an arm’s length away. He shoved his boot heel into the closest male.

Snap.The fighter screamed, his body folding as he dropped to his knees, clutching his thigh and protruding bone.

Another one out.

But another fighter was right behind, fangs clashing, spikes elongating, silver horns snapping straight as he lowered his head and charged at Crex.

Damien shoved his orange-skinned friend out of the way and seized hold of the spiny fighter’s biggest horn, yanking hard as he dropped his weight in the opposite direction. There was a squelching sound of tearing flesh and Damien held the blood-spattered horn in his hands while the fighter writhed on the ground in agony.

Damien slipped back into defense mode, the bottom of his boot sliding across the sand-covered ground as he circled, his gaze alert for the next attack. The tournament organizers had carted sand in from outside the dome and packed it down hard to better absorb the blood and sweat.

It was pure madness in the ring: bodies and limbs flying everywhere, the lasers that lined the sides buzzing and flashing each time a fighter crashed into them, the stench of charred flesh filling the air.

Outside the glowing bars, the spectators’ cheers were a deafening roar.

Damien risked a glance at the tally board as the number of fighters left in the tournament dropped by yet another one.

Only fifteen to go.

A faint rush of air by his side was his only warning. Two fighters jumped him at once.

Rather than spinning away, Damien plowed back into them, throwing them off-balance and making it easy for him to take them down to the ground. They landed one on top of the other, weighing each other down and helping him as he slammed his fist into the chin of the one on top, then used his elbow to crack the temple of the one beneath.

Two sets of eyes rolled back. Lights out.

There was no time to celebrate.

Damien dodged just as a boot sailed toward him with lethal intent. He lurched to the side, ensuring it caught him in the thigh—rather than the stomach—but it still hurt like a motherfucker.

He swept out his foot and brought the asshole down, and then twisted the male’s ankle, wrenching tendon and bone.

Another agonized scream echoed through the arena. The crowd roared.

Twelve more to go. Nor was he the only one dispatching fighters—Crex and his tail were definitely holding their own. The others were busy as well.

Leaving behind the smartest and most vicious. The most hungry to win.

But Damien was the hungriest.

I have always believed you can win this.

Scarlett’s words echoed in his head, driving him on.

She believed in him. Was counting on him.

He was winning this tournament and making her his.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the round and the fact that only eight fighters remained in the ring. The next round would decide the winner.

---