Page 62 of Filthy Beginnings

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 dodged an elbow strike and rolled to his side, leaving a bloody trail on the mat before he surfaced a few arm lengths away. He shoved his boot into the closest male with his back turned.

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 straight for Crex.

Damien shoved his orange-skinned friend out of the way and, grabbing hold of the spiny fighter’s biggest horn, yanked 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 in agony on the ground.

Damien slipped back into defense mode, the bottom of his boot sliding through the sand-packed ground as he circled, his gaze alert for the next attack. The tournament organizers had carted the 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 and the ceiling buzzing and flashing every time a fighter slammed into them, the scent of charred flesh filling the air.

Outside the bars, the cheers of the hundred thousand spectators were a deafening roar.

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

Only thirteen 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 center and making it easy for him to take them down to the mat. They landed one on top of the other, weighing each other down and helping him as he slammed his fist into the chin of 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 flipped over, 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 spine—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.

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

But Damien was hungrier.

I have always believed you can win this.

Scarlett’s words echoed through his mind, 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 there were now only eight fighters left in the ring. The next round would decide the winner.

Pumped, Damien exited the cage and caught his breath in the designated fighters area while ring clean-up 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.

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