Page 47 of Sticks & Serpents

“I don’t care what he thinks,” I shot back, each word thick with defiance. The thought of spending another moment in this house felt unbearable—especially now that Holly loomed in the background of my mind.

“Oh? But you should.” Her tone turned sweet again, syrupy enough to make anyone sick. “After all, it’s our name on the line.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer; every second spent here chipped away at whatever semblance of control I had left. I wanted to escape—to find solace somewhere far away from this place that felt like quicksand dragging me under.

Without another word, I pivoted on my heel and headed for the door. The heavy wooden frame loomed before me like an exit sign from hell.

“Damien!” she called after me, but I didn’t stop.

She faded behind me as I pushed through the threshold into the cool evening air.I can’t be in this house.

Not with her. Not with my father. Not with Holly showing up like some perfect, innocent little lamb, oblivious to the chaos swirling around her.

I slammed the door behind me; the sound echoing through the empty halls of the Sinclaire estate. Each step down the marble staircase felt heavier, a weight pressing down on my chest. I didn’t care if my father shouted after me or if he felt insulted by my departure. I grabbed my keys from the small dish near the front entrance and stormed out into the night.

The air outside was cooler, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of that house. I climbed into my car, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as anger boiled inside me. My father could keep his expectations and his bullshit; I wasn’t going to play his game any longer.

The fight club awaited me. The stench of sweat and blood filled my nostrils as I drove through winding streets leading towards Crestwood’s pristine neighborhoods where a secret a place that thrived on brutality was.

The moment I pulled up outside Pandora's Box, adrenaline surged through me. This was where rules meant nothing, where pain was not just welcomed but sought after. It stood so different from everything else in my life—the polished floors and controlled smiles of family dinners—and that’s exactly what I needed.

Inside, bodies collided against one another with fierce intensity—grunts mingling with shouts filled the air as men fought for dominance in a space designed for chaos. The dim light flickered overhead like a heartbeat, pulsing in time with the violence unfolding before me.

I stepped inside and felt the energy shift—a mix of respect and fear directed at me. They knew who I was, but more importantly, they understood what I brought: a storm wrapped in flesh and bone ready to unleash itself upon anyone daring enough to step into my path.

Tonight wouldn’t be about distractions or pretenses; it would be about release—an outlet for all this pent-up rage simmering beneath my skin. No one cared about appearances here; only strength mattered.

I pushed through the crowd toward the ring at its center, each step amplifying my resolve as anticipation bubbled within me like molten lava ready to erupt.

The scent of sweat, blood, and smoke wrapped around me as I stepped into the dimly lit arena. The cacophony of shouts and grunts filled the air, a violent symphony that pulsed in time with my racing heart. Here, I wasn’t a Sinclaire; I was just another body looking for a fight, another soul lost in chaos.

A guy at the bar caught sight of me and smirked, leaning back against the wooden surface like he owned the place. “You looking to hit something, Sinclaire?” His voice dripped with mockery.

I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked past him, each step fueled by a primal urge to unleash the storm brewing inside me. I slipped between the ropes of the ring, feeling the coarse texture beneath my fingertips as I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up, exposing my forearms—ready for action.

The crowd swelled around me, faces blurred by dim light and anticipation. They sensed it—the energy crackling in the air as they waited for someone to make a move. I could feel their eyes on me, some filled with respect and others tinged with fear. But it didn’t matter; I craved something more than recognition.

I stood in the center of the ring, legs planted firmly apart, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap. The silence stretched thin before me; it was only a matter of time before someone dared to throw the first punch. My heart thrummed in response—an intoxicating rhythm that drowned out all other thoughts.

I wanted to bleed. Wanted to feel something real again—something raw that reminded me I was alive amidst this tangled mess called life.

In this place?

Pain made sense.

It was straightforward—unlike my mother’s touch that had once seared through my skin or my father’s suffocating control that felt like shackles.

And Holly?

She had no business being in this world—her innocence would only be tainted by what lurked beneath my surface. My need to protect her battled against an equally strong urge to draw her closer; both felt like losing propositions.

But tonight wasn’t about her or any of those entanglements. Tonight was mine.

The first hit cracked across my jaw, sharp and electrifying.

Good.

I welcomed it.

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