Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 70263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
The killing, the cleaning and fixing for the Ruin, for the Bratva, did help satiate all the heinous shit I felt deep down. Having somebody to go up against, someone who had the strength and agility, the same evilness lurking in them and willingness to give it back tenfold, was a whole different kind of fight.
It was the hits to my body, that pain wrapped up in brutality, that made me feel something other than the brokenness that shaped the man I was today.
And it was in this sphere where the bloodthirsty anger of what made a person survive came to the surface. It came alive, growing until it threatened to swallow you whole. And then you unleashed it within the metal cage, letting that blood and flesh cover your chest and soak the ground, a visual that you were strong, that you were here, that no one and nothing could take you down.
It meant you were real.
I sat on a small, bloodstained wooden bench in the corner of the cage and focused on my taped hands, my fingers extending and contracting as I flexed them. I hadn’t been to the Pit in several months, not feeling that darkness creep up on me.
But ever since that all-consuming desire for Lina arose, I’d felt myself starting to unravel, to fray around the edges as it spread outward until I’d be nothing but tatters on the ground.
The need to possess her had started to control me. And that was a very dangerous situation. I’d never given any part of myself to another person, never allowed anyone to have that kind of control over me.
So this was what I needed, to brutally destroy, to feel pain… to allow someone to give it to me.
And then my opponent stepped into the cage, a six-foot-five hulking beast who went by the Russian name Razoreniye. Or was simply known as Ruin in English. A killer for the Bratva, a man who was darker and deadlier than even me. He had no mercy, no empathy… nothing holding him back from being as dark as he wanted.
And he was exactly the man I wanted to fight tonight. He’d be as violent toward me as I would be toward him.
And right now I needed that more than anything.
He stepped in close, the lifelike wolf head tattoo covering the entire front part of his chest and other Bratva insignia inked on his big body.
The sounds of the bastards thirsty for the blood that would spill rang through the room. Bids for who would win this fight were shouted out in Russian, the words flowing together so they all sounded like the same string of notes through my head.
I stood, rolling my head around my neck, adrenaline making my muscles feel bigger, more powerful. If Razoreniye could have smiled in sadistic pleasure, I was sure he’d do it now. As it was, we both faced off, neither of us giving anything away.
And when the bell rang, all hell broke loose.
We were two tornadoes slamming into each other, fists a blur, the punches coordinated, the pain a welcome retreat. I absorbed it all, letting Razoreniye hit me more times than I’d ever allow another person to. And it was because that was the only way my inner war was tamed.
The only way I could gather any kind of fucking control.
I had a busted lip, a cut above my eye, and the dark pleasure of the relief I’d yearned for coursing through me as I left Yama and stepped out into the night, cold fall night of Desolation, New York. The feeling of my cell vibrating in my coat pocket had me reaching inside and pulling it out as I made my way toward my Mercedes.
I didn’t recognize the number that flashed across the screen, but it would have only been someone close to me, or the Ruin, as no other soul would have had this number.
I hit Accept and put the phone to my ear, not saying anything. Whoever it was could either start speaking or hang up after all they heard was dead air.
“We need your assistance, Arlo.” The deep voice was instantly recognizable. “We need your help with a cleanup.”
Twenty minutes later I pulled to a stop in front of Butcher and Son, a decades-old abandoned slaughterhouse on the outskirts of Desolation. I parked my Mercedes and let the headlights illuminate the large bay doors. Although I didn't see any other vehicles, I knew what waited for me inside.
After killing the engine and getting out, I scanned my surroundings, my hand tucked into the inner pocket of my jacket and my fingers wrapping around the grip of my gun.
When I was confident I was alone, I went to the trunk, grabbed my duffel that held the basic supplies I’d need to clean up the body, and made my way toward the slaughterhouse.