Page 63 of Filthy Royal

Pumped, Damien exited the cage to catch his breath in the designated fighters’ area while ring cleanup started, several robed betas scurrying out to mop up as much of the blood, tissue, and sweat as possible.

The crowd remained on its feet, screaming and cheering.

All Damien could think of was Scarlett and how it had felt to hold her. Taste her. And how fragile and worried she’d seemed.

Soon, she wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

Unlocking the small storage space allotted each fighter, Damien pulled out the canister of water Scarlett had given him earlier and took a long drink, feeling closer to her already.

Crex staggered over to stand by his side, the curved spatter of blood across his cheek and the cut above his eye, making him look like some kind of clown raider.

“You did it.” Damien clapped his friend on the back. Crex had made it past the final sixteen and all the way to the last eight fighters. His prize money would be even greater than he’d expected, his sisters’ futures assured.

“Thanks to you.” Crex shot him a smile.

Damien shook his head. “You got yourself here. I only cut down the competition.”

“Right.” Crex looked unconvinced. “Say what you want. I know the truth—and I’m grateful. And thirsty.” He made a grab for Damien’s drink.

Damien grunted, pulling his hand away. “Get your own.”

Crex just laughed.

Damien might have joined him, but his tongue felt weirdly heavy.

“You okay?” Crex’s question jerked him from his thoughts.

“Yup.” He shook off the weird sensation. “Just studying the competition.”

“You’ve got this in the bag.” Like him, Crex surveyed the fighters left.

Three Brotherhood-sponsored fighters remained, including a hulking, plated Kuril Alpha and a blob-like fucker who could only be from the Prendel crime family. There was one other no-name, non-Brotherhood fighter like him and Crex and a couple of Consortium-owned warriors, likely trained by Scarlett’s brother. And, of course, there was Kadon Stormhart. Still in the tournament, as predicted. Or perhaps someone had rigged that outcome, but there was only so much the Consortium or Brotherhood could do. Damien would not be controlled by them.

He surveyed those standing between him and his goal.

Cuts and bruises riddled everyone left, including himself. A couple had broken arms and horns, and a few more looked dazed, one listing from side to side. Those would be the easiest to take out next.

But fucking Kadon Stormhart looked as clear-headed and focused as ever. His gaze locked on Damien.

Scowling, Damien stared back, not looking away as he chugged down more water.

He’d taken out the fighters near him easily. But Stormhart was proving harder to dispatch.

They’d exchanged a few strikes whenever they crossed paths earlier, but there’d been so many bodies at the start, and they both kept getting ambushed by others looking to take out the favorites fast.

Damien didn’t let it worry him. He’d get around to the bastard soon.

Because this time, a sense of control guided him on and off the ring. He felt centered in a way he never had before. Stormhart was just another fighter to defeat. A stepping stone to what really mattered.

Damien pictured Scarlett’s face and his true purpose reemerged, cutting through all the bullshit and the screaming crowd, the golden lights and flashing money signs.

None of that mattered.

Not even the title itself.

Not even beating Stormhart, beyond the fact that it was a means to his real objective.

His true end and his beginning was Scarlett Skolov.

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