Page 43 of Bride By Initiation

Unknown: Don't bring any weapons. If you do, I'll confiscate them. And it'll be a penalty against you.

I think about what I want to do. I consider putting a knife in my boot, but I decide maybe it's best if I don't. And then I get another text.

Unknown: You can't hide anything, Sean. We're waiting, and you have two minutes to get inside or you're late. The window of opportunity shuts.

"Dammit!" I slam the glove compartment closed and then exit the vehicle, glancing around and muttering, "This place is a fucking shithole."

I walk to the only door in the building, turn the handle, and push the heavy metal door. It opens with a creak.

The only thing in front of me is a staircase leading down. I step inside and turn on the flashlight on my phone.

The door slams, and the sound of an electrical bolt locking fills the air. It makes me hesitate, and I wonder again what I'm getting myself into.

It's now or never.

I walk down a flight of stairs, then turn and descend another. Four floors down, another door appears.

Muffled sounds come from the other side. I take a deep breath, push it, and stale air hits me. Loud shouts deafen my ears.

I step inside, shocked. The room is dim. Light bulbs hang from the ceiling, and there's a dirt floor. A massive crowd fills the room from wall to wall.

Women, men, and even some children make up the group. They scream insults and cheer with joy. There are so many people, I can't see past them to know what causes them to yell.

From the shadows, John steps out. He pats me on the back and says in an Irish accent, "Made it with ten seconds to go. Well done."

The crowd roars louder, and I realize it's the same as when I'm fighting, but I can't see any fighters. There are just too many people.

I question, "How did all these people get here? There are no vehicles anywhere."

John taps his head. "Aye. That's for me to know."

I glance between him and the crowd. "What is this place?"

John's lips twist. "It's something you're going to love."

"Yeah? Why is that?" I ask doubtfully.

"Because your father imagined, designed, and loved it," he informs me.

Adrenaline rushes through me. I hate that it does. I don't want John to predict how I'll think or feel, yet he's correct.

It's only one reason I don't like him. I've loathed him since the minute I saw him talking to Zara. I hate how he's mysterious and only gives me little tidbits of information. I can't stand how he has the same brand as my dad, when I don't even understand what it truly represents. And I detest that he seems to hold the keys to a world my father took part in, and that the rest of my family doesn't know about it, or does and wants to keep me in the dark.

He steps beside me, puts his arm around my shoulders, and leans into my ear. He declares, "It's time to see if you're meant to follow in your father's footsteps."

My gut flips. "What are you talking about?"

He points around the room. "No one could beat him."

I blurt out, "My father was an amazing fighter. Nothing scared him."

"Aye, he was, and you're right. He was braver than most men."

"Why do you have an Irish accent tonight? You never have before."

John's lips twitch. "I have many accents, son."

"I'm not your son."

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