Page 7 of Alpha Chained

He hits the canvas hard, wheezing for air. I stalk forward, intent on sealing the fight. As I descend to apply a fight-ending choke, he lunges up, sinking his teeth into the thick meat of my shoulder. I hiss at the searing pain, a little surprised. Usually, I’m the one doing the biting. I’m not put off for long, though.

Latching onto the Mule’s sweat-slicked back, I try to dislodge his bulldog bite. He just gnashes harder, clamping down with bone-grinding force. A savage growl rumbles up from his heaving chest. I can feel warm saliva soaking my skin as his jaws work.

Trapped in his clinch, I hammer him with short, sharp knees to the midsection. One, two, three – I feel the give of softening muscle and bruising organs. The Mule grunts through gritted teeth, rearing back as he tries to smash his forehead into my face. The scent of my blood on his breath lights something in me. Something primal. Something raw.

Rage surges in me.

And I feel the change begin to well in me.

It’s like a swarm of bees buzzing beneath my skin. The glow of heat as cells fire and spark as they rearrange themselves.

Control! Keep control!

I can’t shift all the way. Not this time. Those weren’t my instructions. But as I shoot another glance up to the chair on the podium, I get the sign I’ve been waiting for.

A slight nod from the man seated there. I focus back on the Moscow Mule. And he sucks in a breath as he gets a good look at me now. At the monster beneath the surface. The creature that glows from my eyes.

“Sweet Jesus, what the fuck are you?” he gasps as his eyes meet my glowing ones.

I am a beast. Your worst nightmare. The reaper of souls.

I don’t say any of this.

“I’ll make it fast,” I say instead, a moment before I sink my fangs into his throat. There’s a crunch as his windpipe shatters, a warm gush of blood into my mouth and down my chin. He jerks spasmodically against my chest, his hands flailing uselessly. I know that I’ve severed the artery that leads to his brain. He’ll black out before the pain sets in, and by then, his body will have given up anyway.

Shoving him away from me, I let him crumple to the floor as I spit gore from my mouth. His body twitches out its final moments of life as I turn away. There’s a howl of approval from the men watching from around the ring.

No amount of money in the world can disguise what they are.

Fucking animals.

I stride to the center of the octagon, standing as the referee rushes in and reaches for my wrist, hoisting my arm high in victory. My bicep is streaked with blood. It coats my chest and face, too. I can taste the copper tang of it still coating my tongue. My body throbs with a dozen aches and pains from the brutal fight, but I hold myself rigid, impassive.

My gaze finds the man seated in the wingback chair on the raised platform. Franklin Parker. His smooth face is twisted into a mocking smirk as he regards me with those flat, dead eyes. He rises to his feet, letting his expensive suit jacket fall back to reveal the crisp white shirt and burgundy tie beneath.

With a slow, theatrical sweep of his arm, he begins to clap. The sound cuts through the din like a blade – mocking, sardonic applause. I know the game he’s playing. Trying to get under my skin, to shake my stoicism. It won’t work. I’ve endured too much at his hands to let him think he can rattle me.

Still, I can’t help the hot flare of rage that licks through my veins at the sight of his smug superiority. This twisted bastard who gets off on putting us through this ritualized violence and bloodletting. All for the amusement of his rich, depraved cronies.

My hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist at my side as Parker continues that infuriatingly slow clap. I can feel the prickle of claws extending from my fingertips, straining against the tattered tape still binding my hands. The beast within me snarls, urging me to lash out and rip that sneer right off his face.

But I can’t. Not yet. He still holds all the cards. My defiance would only put innocents at risk.

So I swallow back the growl building in my throat and simply stare back at him, letting the storm rage behind my eyes. Parker regards me a moment longer before giving a slight dip of his chin as if acknowledging the threat I represent. The mocking smile doesn’t waver.

With a final clap, he returns to his seat, turning his attention to a man at his side. I watch him as he ignores me studiously, my jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ache.

There’s nothing I can do to him while I’m stuck here. A beast in a gilded cage. A prisoner. A slave to this man’s sadistic whims.

Because Franklin Parker owns me.

Chapter 4

Raura

I keep fighting as Parker hands me over to a pair of hulking guards. It’s no use though, they may be human, but they’re huge, powerful, and in my weakened state, my resistance is barely noticed. Their faces remain impassive behind mirrored sunglasses. I’m turned and pushed ahead of them, the cold metal of their weapons pressing against my back as they march me forward.

“Those weapons fire silver rounds,” Parker says over his shoulder as he leads the way, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “So don’t get any bright ideas about shifting.”