Page 62 of Shattered Love

I smirk. “You mean in an alley fight.”

He looks blankly at me before shaking his head. “Humor me, Stone. The guy has a weakness they’ve hidden. Yours, you wear like fucking armor, a noose around your neck. You need to do whatever you can to find his fucking weakness and attack it until the ring is a pool of blood. It’s the only way you’re going to walk away from this.”

I look him straight in the eyes. “He's mine.”

He nods, but he doesn't look confident. He's never loved anything apart from the green that crosses his hand. Doesn't know what holding your wife’s lifeless body in your arms feels like. That penance stays alive in your veins.

I hold the necklace I never take off in my hand, kissing the ring before putting it in my pocket. Love you, Avery Stone.

He shoves past my shoulder, walking over to the window. He looks back at me and I lift my chin. He studies me a second more before raising his thumb up to the announcer.

The light goes out—darkness, my home.

I can hear the rumble of the voice announcing the first tribute.

Standing closer watching the far side of the building. He comes out looking just as Benny had described him. He’s built like a tank and ink-covered, a lot of them prison tats. His lips pull up into a sneer, baring his teeth.

The crowd cheers. Some boo as he pushes a few of the crowd.

He takes the center of the concrete ring. His arms wide. “Come on, you fucking pussy!”

The crowd shouts louder as he tries to banter with me. He throws his fingers up in my direction.

I feel Benny’s stare. I look over to see him pale, sweat dripping down his brow.

“Don't bet against me.”

He tries to grin to reassure me.

Taking the first step to the staircase, just in time for the announcer to call my name.

I walk across the room silently with the smell of blood in my nostrils from the warm-up fights before me.

I look behind Silas to a group of men behind him. One has a long scar running down his face. When he smiles at me, it reminds me of the Joker.

Silas is bouncing on his feet with adrenaline. Benny’s source was right. He does have a slight limp in his left leg. The fact that he is showing it means he already thinks he’s the fucking winner.

The man that they call the referee only really had one job, which was to make sure you didn't scream too loud as to bring attention if you were killed.

Blows his whistle and the crowd around us goes wild.

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