Page 44 of Bride By Initiation

"Aye, you're not, but this is your destiny. But first, you must prove you're as worthy as your father was, as blood doesn't give you an automatic seat on the throne," he asserts.

My pulse races, and my mouth turns dry. I don't understand what the throne is, and I'm pretty sure why he summoned me here, but I still ask, "Doing what?"

John smiles.

It's eerie, and goose bumps erupt over my arms.

"When that man in the ring dies, you will step forward. Whoever stands at the night's end, still breathing, wins the bid."

"You keep talking about this bid, but I don't know what you're referring to," I remind him.

"You will when it's time. But trust me, you want to win the bid. And especially tonight, because if you don't, you'll die." He grins wider.

I tear my eyes off him, staring at the crowd dressed in street clothes. They look like normal people, but I still don't know how they got here.

The crowd erupts with louder shouts, and within several seconds, I wince from the ear-piercing screams.

And a chill runs down my spine when I notice many men with the same brand my father had. Some have no color. Some have light pink in them. Some have other colors of the rainbow. Some have shading while others have none.

"Aye. You're up." John nods and steps toward the crowd. Then he stops and turns his head. "Are you coming?"

Without hesitating, my feet move. It's as if something takes hold of my body, and I couldn't stop myself if I tried.

John pushes through the mass of bodies until we're at the center, and there's a bloody, unrecognizable dead man lying on the ground. Another man's barely able to stay on his feet as he holds up his arm in victory.

A bald, stocky man with three hoops through his nose and tattoos all over his face jumps into the circle and makes an X with his arms above his head.

Two men grab the corpse's legs and arms and cart him to the edge of the circle. The crowd parts, and they disappear.

The fighter who won gets led to a metal chair. A woman holds a bottle of water to his lips, almost as if it were a fight in the ring.

But it's not.

The ring has rules and structure. There's a referee to ensure people can breathe at the end, even if barely. That's not the situation here.

John orders, "Drop your pants."

"What?"

"Drop your pants," he sternly orders.

I glance at the fighter sitting down. He's in a pair of red silk boxer shorts. I do as instructed and strip out of my jeans.

A woman with long blonde hair approaches me. She bats her lashes and holds out a pair of green silk shorts.

I take them and put them on.

The crowd cheers, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Adrenaline courses through me as my fighter instincts turn on.

John directs, "Take your shirt off. Shoes too."

I obey.

He points to another chair someone moved into the circle. I take two steps and sit down.

A man with reddish-orange hair steps in front of me. He's older, probably the age my father would've been. He peers at me closer, and something washes over him. He says, "Aye, you look just like him." And I realize it's nostalgia he's feeling.

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