Page 8 of Knot Playing Fair 2

“One! Two! Three! Four...” Each word was punctuated by an exaggerated swing of one arm.

In the cage, Emiel lay unmoving.

FOUR

Byron

IT WAS PROBABLY LESSthan stellar that my first thought after seeing Emiel go limp on the mat was, ‘Huh, guess that’ll at least make it easier to drag his stubborn ass out of here.’

The referee continued his enthusiastic countdown with a shout of, “Eight! Nine!Ten!” As the crowd erupted into pandemonium, the blood-smeared female alpha punched a fist in the air, bouncing around the cage in enthusiastic triumph.

“Christ,” Zalen muttered, the sound nearly swallowed by the cheers and jeers of the mob around us. He raised his voice to be heard better. “We need to find out where they’re taking him. He could be seriously hurt after that shot to the skull.”

People were already swarming inside the cage, even as the announcer declared the downfall of the previously unbeaten champion and the victory of the underdog, Sweet Vee.

“Hardest part of his body,” I muttered, hopefully too low for Zalen to catch it.

It took three people to haul Emiel’s unresponsive carcass out of the cage, one on each arm and another holding his legs. The cage door was on the opposite side from our vantage point at the front of the crowd, but Zalen was already moving—pissing off yet more armed gangbangers as he went.

I followed in his wake like always, hyperaware of the vulnerability of my back. This was why I hated violence. It always spread like a cancer. An alpha had pummeled Emiel into the mat, no doubt causing a lot of people to lose alotof money. Now those people would be pissed off as well, looking for an outlet for their anger.

The shoving hands around us grew rougher, curses following in our wake as we pushed toward the far end of the old press floor. I swallowed the growl that wanted to rise, hating that even my own instincts seemed ready to jump on board the violence train. Gritting my teeth, I put my head down and slipped through the space Zalen was carving through the crowd.

By the time we got free of the crush—thankfully without collecting any bullet or stab wounds along the way—we’d lost sight of Emiel’s unconscious form.

“This way,” Zalen said, ducking through a door that apparently led into the main part of the Spivey Building.

It had once been a lobby. Now it was a trash heap, illuminated by the harsh glare of bare lightbulbs strung here and there from the half-collapsed ceiling frame. Rotting mattresses and discarded hypodermics spoke of its use by East St. Louis’ robust population of homeless druggies.

That could’ve been you, whispered the little inner voice that was generally both more insightful and less of an asshole than the rest of me. I set it aside with the ease of long practice.

The usual population of squatters must have been kicked out when the fights moved in, because the place was currently populated by a bunch of tough-looking, scarred alphas in robes and boxing trunks—many of them deep in conversation with equally scarred and tough-looking trainers. As Zalen and I entered, every gaze turned toward us, settling over us with a palpable weight of distrust.

Zalen drew a breath, and I was ninety-nine percent sure he was about to launch into the same optimistic spiel he’d unleashed on the bouncers at the door—we were here for Emiel, we were his packmates, blah, blah, blah.

Before he could speak, an enraged roar came from the far corner of the poorly lit space. I’d recognized that roar in the ring earlier; it was unmistakable now. A kid in track pants and a huge, shapeless hoodie went staggering backwards from the shadowed corner, cursing a blue streak as he nearly went down on his ass.

Zalen sprinted toward the commotion, and with a heartfelt curse of my own, I followed him. The two other guys who’d dragged Emiel out of the cage backed away from the corner, their hands raised palm out.

“Throw that asshole outta here!” yelled one of the fighters. “He’s finally lost his shit!”

Several jeers of agreement sounded from elsewhere in the abandoned lobby. “Fucker’s on meth or somethin’!” came another shout.

Then, from a different part of the room, “Get him a couple of omegas to calm him down!”

---