Page 6 of Alpha Chained
I can smell it.
He raises his free hand and gives a flick of his fingers.
This is it.
I square my stance and inhale a deep breath, feeling oxygen flood my cells, sparking life through me. Even now, after all this time, there’s still a rush of adrenaline in this tense moment before the referee starts the fight.
Not that we have much need for a referee. There are no rules in this cage. No mercy, either.
Only one of us will walk out of here tonight.
And although the bearded man thumping his chest doesn’t believe it right now, that one is going to be me.
“Fight!” the ref shouts, and the big guy immediately launches in with a flying strike to my face.
I brace for impact as the Mule’s fist hurtles toward my face. His knuckles graze my cheek, the force of the blow whipping my head to the side. A sharp sting spreads across my skin, but I don’t flinch. Taking the hit is part of my strategy. I let the momentum spin me around, using his own power against him.
As I pivot, I drive my elbow back, slamming it into the soft meat of his abdomen. The Mule grunts, the air whooshing from his lungs. He doubles over, creating an opening. I grab a fistful of his sweat-damp hair and yank his head down, bringing my knee up to meet his face.
Crunch.
His nose explodes in a spray of crimson. He howls, reeling back, hands clutching at the ruined cartilage. Blood splatters as he shakes his huge head to clear it. Venom swirls in pitch-black eyes as he gathers himself and surges back at me. He runs straight into my fist. I land another. I don’t let up.
Can’t let up.
I launch a kick to his ribs, feeling them give with a sickening crack beneath my bare heel.
“Fucking…bastard!” the Mule slurs through a mouthful of blood. He spits a thick wad to the mat, glaring at me with murderous eyes.
I say nothing. Just stare back, impassive. Let him rage and bellow. It won’t change anything.
With a bestial roar, he charges again, abandoning all technique for wild, flailing strikes. I weave around his swinging fists with clinical precision. One lucky shot grazes my brow, sending a warm trickle of blood sheeting into my eye. I blink it away, focused.
When his furious onslaught finally leaves an opening, I twist and take his back, locking in a rear naked choke. My forearm presses into the pulsing artery on the side of his bull neck. He flails, trying to buck me off, but I clamp down tighter with my legs hooked around his trunk.
“Mother… motherfucker!” he spits out past gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he fights for air. I tighten the choke until his face turns purple. He lets out a gurgling growl of defiance, still thrashing. The crowd around the octagon goes wild.
Raising my head, I look up to the podium, waiting for the sign. The sign that will let me know this can be over. The man in the chair shakes his head. His lust is not slated.
Releasing my grip, I allow myself to be flipped off when the Mule bucks his powerful body against me. Twisting free from my grasp, he staggers to his feet, shaking blood and sweat from his eyes as he aims a vicious kick to my ribs. I feel something crunch, and I bite down a grunt before hauling myself up, squaring off against him.
He’s more cautious with me now, his eyes narrowed on me as he guards his face with upraised fists, bouncing from foot to foot in a lumbering dance. I deliberately give him a gap, flinching when a fist glances against my jaw.
“Get him, Mule!” someone shouts from the crowd. There are answering jeers, some encouraging, some not. None of it means anything to me either way. I’m here to do a job. To put on a show.
And so I give them one.
I let The Mule’s fists pound into my body for a few moments, giving him the illusion of gaining ground. His knuckles crack against my ribs, my kidneys, leaving rivers of pain in their wake. I grunt and stagger back, keeping my hands up to guard my face. The Mule advances, snarling like a rabid dog.
“That all you got, pussy?” he spits, a thick gob of blood and spittle splattering my cheek. “Thought you were supposed to be tough.”
I take another blow to the jaw, snapping my head to the side. My vision swims for a heartbeat. At that moment, The Mule presses his fleeting advantage, driving me back toward the chain-link fence surrounding the octagon.
As my shoulders collide with the unforgiving metal, I see my opening. Riding out another meaty punch that rocks my skull, I launch myself forward in a furious flurry of knees and elbows. A knee to the Mule’s ribs, an elbow cracking across his cheekbone. Blood sprays from his split skin as he howls in surprised pain.
“You fucking cu—” His curses are cut off as I clamp a forearm across his windpipe, pinning him to the fence. With my free hand, I grab a fistful of hair and slam his face into the chain links again and again.
Metal clangs with each impact, drowned out only by the roar of the crowd. The Mule slashes at me with wild, desperate swipes, nails raking lines of fire across my back. I ignore the stinging, keeping the pressure on. Pivoting, I hurl him across the mat with a savage hip toss.