Riot (Scarred Souls 4)

I squeezed my eyes shut as a bolt of pain forced my back to arch. Panting, breathless, I opened my eyes and pointed to the cell door. 901 followed my finger and asked, “What?”

“Guard…” I rasped. “Get the guard to take me.”

This time, 901’s gaze wasn’t hard or stern, it was positively savage. “You want a guard over me?”

Unable to keep fighting, my body sagged on the floor and I said, “I don’t want you to take me … because…” I hissed as my channel contracted, then forced myself to add, “you don’t want me. You don’t want this … I couldn’t stand to be the one who took away your choice.”

I stretched my body, trying to fight off the cramp seizing my limbs. My vision became blurry as the drugs built and built, making it almost impossible to endure. 901’s expression became engulfed with pain. As quickly as it came, it disappeared. As I pressed my fingers to my core, 901 kneeled beside me, his blue eyes beaming down, directly at mine.

I watched as his breathing increased. I watched as his hands hooked onto the waistband of his pants and pulled the fabric down. I shifted as his hard length came into view and he stroked it with his hand. My legs opened as he began crawling over me. His huge chest covered mine, his arms bracing on either side of my head as he lay at my entrance.

I shook my head, feeling the cold floor beneath me. But 901 leaned down, and in a familiar tender move, brushed back the sweaty strand of hair from my forehead. I paused, the pain momentarily forgotten as he watched me. A small blush covered his stubbled cheeks as he studied my face. In this moment, an unfamiliar feeling sprouted in my heart. This feeling caused me to raise my hand and place it on his cheek. 901 gasped at my touch, his lips parting at the feel.

And we stayed that way, paused in time, locked in the moment, just his gaze trapped in mine.

As another wave hit me, 901 began pushing inside me, quickly extinguishing the brunt of the pain. I gripped his heavy arms as a loud needy cry spilled from my lips. Sliding his hand from my head to my chin, 901 made me look into his eyes as he said, “I do want you, krasivaya. I won’t let you die. I’ll take you, but I just can’t let you have me … it’ll make me weak.”

Beautiful, my mind translated. 901 had called me beautiful.

I moaned as he slammed into me, his thrusts soothing my pain. As I lost my mind to the drugs, krasivaya, krasivaya, krasivaya … circled my head.

Beautiful, he had said. Krasivaya.

901 thought me beautiful.

And he had told me so in Russian.

In the language of our hearts.

The language of our home.

I smiled as his chest brushed against my breasts. I smiled as I looped my arms around his strong neck. Because I also thought this deadly warrior was beautiful.

He was simply … more.

8

LUKA

“Again!” Valentin demanded as I circled him in the ring. I stretched my fingers, then formed them back into fists. I watched as Valentin jumped to his feet, a trickle of blood running down his chin from his lip.

I charged, slamming my fist into his face. Valentin’s head whipped back, but recovering quickly, he shook off the blow and delivered a hook shot to my ribs. My breath was taken away, but before he could gain advantage, I swept his ankle and dropped him to the ground.

I saw Zaal pacing the ring, desperate for his chance to spar. But when Valentin flipped me onto my back, I quickly focused on the task at hand. Valentin’s hands wrapped around my neck, his scarred face hovering close as his eyes shone brightly with bloodlust.

Lifting my hands to wrap around his neck, I squeezed hard, each of us robbing the other of breath. I could feel my face reddening under Valentin’s grip, but he was faring no better than I was. Our bodies were screaming for air.

“Enough!” Zaal called, his hand slapping on the floor, but I stared into the eyes of this killer trying to take my life. I could see in his blue eyes that he wouldn’t give up. Lifting my leg, I kicked out, unbalancing the male sitting above me. Rolling over, I straddled his waist, knocking his hands off my neck. My grip slipped from his neck. Zaal then pulled me from Valentin as he roared and went to strike again.

I panted, muscles braced to react as Valentin paced the floor of the ring, his deadly gaze slicing over Zaal to mine. I pushed off Zaal and rushed to Valentin, standing toe-to-toe with the psychotic male.

“I want to kill you,” he snarled, then pushed me back.

I moved back directly in his path and ordered, “Resist it.”

Valentin’s balled fist smacked at the side of his head. He growled low and said, “I need to kill you!” His fingers dragged down to circle the collar scar marring his neck.

“Resist it,” I ordered again, and watched the newest member of our Bratva war with the monster living inside.

“No,” he replied, abruptly standing still, every packed muscle in his huge body tensed and shaking as he tried to restrain his rage. “I want to kill!” he bellowed.

Zaal moved beside me, crossing his arms over his chest. His black hair hung down over his chest, dripping with sweat. “Fight it,” he ordered, too. Valentin’s stare almost eviscerated him on the spot.

“I’m a killer!” he hissed, his neck cording at the effort it was taking not to kill us where we stood. “I fucking kill!”

This time neither Zaal nor I spoke. If Valentin was to stand with us as a future Bratva king, if he was to stay and build our brotherhood to be unrivaled and feared, he had to learn how to conquer his conditioned instinct to strike.

Zaal stepped closer and Valentin bared his teeth. “For Zoya,” he said. The words immediately had an impact on our brother. Valentin stilled. He held Zaal’s gaze and Zaal held his.

As the minutes passed, the rage within Valentin reduced to a simmer. That was as low as it got for the scarred Russian. He was always angry, always filled with pain.

The three of us stood there silently, until I said, “To be a fighter, you have to know when to contain your rage. You must use it to fuel your need to kill but hold it back enough to not let it blind you.”

“I’m not a fighter,” Valentin bit out. “I’m a fucking torturer. I’m an assassin. I don’t dance in a ring for entertainment. I extract pain slowly, until they scream.”

Zaal stepped back. I knew it was to distance himself from the male that held his sister’s heart. The male that, before he loved her, had tortured her. Had exacted the pain he talked of so excitedly.

Valentin’s chest worked up and down as he tried to gain control. I had turned to speak to Zaal when Viktor came running through the back door of the Dungeon.

He rapped his hand on the office door as he passed. My father and Kirill walked out from doing business and moved toward us in the training ring. Viktor stopped and tried to catch his breath.

“What?” Kirill asked, adjusting the cuff links on his shirt. His eyes moved to Valentin, and I saw the flash of pride he had for our new brother. Valentin was a monster from your nightmares. And now he was a potential Red King of the Bratva. My father-in-law couldn’t wait for the day he could introduce the new Bratva/Kostava circle to the other crime bosses of New York.

He knew exactly what seeing the three of us would inspire—pure fear.

Viktor inhaled deep, and, looking me dead in the eye, said, “I know how we get you into the pit.”

The moment his words reached my ears, my heart started thundering in my chest. “How?” I pushed. Zaal came to stand at my right; Valentin, also eager to hear my old trainer, stood at my left.

Viktor looked at the three of us and explained. “I’ve just heard from my contact in Georgia that Arziani is holding a death-match tournament in the Blood Pit. He holds regular matches, but he has a group of champions that cannot be defeated. The investors, the crime bosses that go there regularly to gamble and pit their fighters against his, were becoming frustrated with Arziani’s men never losing. To prove Arziani doesn’t rig his matches, he is giving other gulags he’s invested in, and bosses outside his network, a chance to pit fighters against his men and the others entered. It’s an ultimate tournament.” He looked to Kirill and Ivan, then said with emphasis, “Big stakes. The money to be won is in the tens of millions.”