Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

The Dungeon’s Championship reputation grew year by year in the dark world of underground gambling rings. The Dungeon had more prestige than ever, which equaled more money. The fact that my father’s Byki were here day and night until the gym closed, lining the gym walls in their masses and packing AK rifles, said everything about the mental state of this year’s crop of fighters. Papa didn’t want any more pre-fights breaking out, no more early deaths—which did happen each year. And he definitely didn’t want me endangered, which looking at what some of the contestants had done in their pasts, well, it was a real possibility.

Keeping my head down from the lustful glares of the fighters, I headed to the back room where the newbie was training. Hearing the distinct sound of grunts and the metal to metal of weights clanging, I entered the door and was greeted with the domineering sight of a large man’s back, a back full of scars and burns, red marks and raised white skin. He had a huge tattoo across his bulking shoulder blades, which read, “RAZE.”

The new fighter was lifting weights, his ripped and cut muscles tensing and flexing. He was in great condition. A perfect addition to The Dungeon.

Viktor noticed me walk in. He moved from in front of the fighter, counting his reps on a clipboard, to greet me. “Miss. Volkova,” Viktor said, coming to stand next to me as I kept watching this Raze.

The fighter didn’t stop lifting, and I didn’t stop staring. I tried to open my mouth to say something to Viktor—about the fighter’s progress, his stats, if he’d be any good in the cage, what he’d chosen as his weapon—but I was struck dumb watching him lift such impossible weight with a fierce intensity. My thighs tightened as I felt moisture pool between my legs.

I cleared my throat and ran my hand over my forehead. I had no idea what was coming over me lately, but lusting after another man was not… normal. I was turning into a whore.

Viktor nudged me and held out the clipboard for me to read. As I ran my eyes over Raze’s statistics, they bulged. I snapped my gaze to Viktor, who raised his eyebrows and nodded his head. The only other fighter we had who worked as hard was… Alik.

I surveyed the tattoos and scars, which were all over this man’s back. I flinched at some of the images: laughing evil clowns, what can only be described as satanic and demonic lettering spelling the word ‘RAZE’. His tattooed name alone told me the type of man this was—lethal, unforgiving, a born killer. But it was the tattoos beneath that had me entranced: what looked to be hundreds and hundreds of tally marks littering the bottom of his back, then continuing around his sides and, I guessed, over his stomach too.

I swallowed hard when I speculated what those tally marks represented. Deaths. They were counts of the people he’d killed.

A strange feeling crept into my stomach as I thought about it for the first time. This was somebody who could rival Alik. Alik was so strong and infallible in the cage. I’d never thought about him losing a match; the possibility never even crossed my mind. But this guy, at least on paper, he really could be a genuine contender.

I had to tell Papa. Raze didn’t belong in the lower ranks. If he could fight as well as he could lift, he should be a headliner. It would help if we could get an idea about his past, the story behind his name.

“Raze?” Viktor called as I made notes on my pad, and I heard a dumbbell clatter to the floor. “You need to meet Miss. Kisa Volkova. She runs things around here, for her father. He runs the whole show.”

Raze turned to face me; it felt as if a northern wind had gusted in. He pulled my attention. Scribbling the last note on the paper, I looked up to see a ripped and cut muscled man standing panting, salty sweat dripping to the floor. His eyes were downcast, Eye Black smudged underneath each one to disguise his eyes. But like a spell, a will for him to lift his gaze, his head lifted and I found myself staring into a pair of brown eyes, the left iris smudged with a hint of blue… my blue, the color from my eyes…

“Y-you?” I whispered as I drank in this man. It was him. Him! All six-four, two twenty pounds of him. Tanned skin covered in scars, marks, and sadistic tattoos. I saw the recognition flash across his eyes, but in a second, his stare was numb again, like he was blocking me out, like he was blocking everything out, except the rage he kept hidden. I grew breathless as his packed abs and pecs tensed under my scrutiny, his bulging thighs clenched at my attention, and his traps danced as his jaw tightened the more I stared.

And his face? Finally, I could study his face in the light, and my God… he was beautiful. Without meaning to, my lips parted in want and a silent hiss slipped out. Raze’s stern face was covered in dark stubble, three large scars marring his weathered skin, one down his cheek, one angled down his forehead, and one slashed under his left eye. But they didn’t make him any less handsome. No, Raze couldn’t be described as handsome. Rough, raw, dark, dangerous, intimidating… the opposite of handsome. But I couldn’t tear my gaze from him regardless.

And then those brown eyes with a hint of blue bored so fervently on my chest, a chest panting a shade too hard, betraying the effect he was having on my traitorous body. My nipples became erect, far too sensitive against the material of my camisole. The brush of the fabric sent jolts of pleasure to my clit, and I had to fight the urge to drop my hand to my pussy, from palming the flesh of my breasts.

And then one thought broke through the trance, through the hellish spell I’d found myself under. I had given him ten grand. He was the buy-in. I had given him the money to get his revenge… and he’d bought into my Dungeon.