Page 23 of Frozen Hearts
I nod before pushing my way through the crowd. No one has recognized me yet, but it won’t be long until someone does, so I use the anonymity to my advantage as I shove forward until I’m standing ringside.
Grayson and Logan follow, and catching the referee’s eye, I jut my chin so he knows I’m here. As the fight before mine comes to a predictable end, and the loser is helped out of the ring by his buddies, the air around me becomes charged, whispers building in momentum as the gathered crowd catches sight of me.
Ruthless.
Ruthless!
RUTHLESS!
Ruth-less! Ruth-less! Ruth-less!
The chanting threatens to blow the roof off the large warehouse that holds these illegal fights. One of the guys claps me on the back, and rolling my shoulders, I step through the rope and into the ring.
Standing beneath the spotlight, I lift my arms in the air. The screaming becomes deafening as the crowd catches my fighter name printed in large, bold letters across the back of my hoodie.
Ruthless.
Royce “Ruthless” King.
Ruthless in the ring and ruthless out of it, because the only way to survive in this life is to be fucking ruthless. To take or be taken. To win or be won. To fight or to die.
Spinning, I turn to face the crowd still screaming my name, giving them my usual cold, empathetic stare before I dismiss the room entirely and turn toward Gray and Logan. Unzipping the hoodie, I toss it to Logan before I kick off my boots and socks and begin to bounce on the balls of my feet. Blood pumps through my veins. The Depot fades until all that exists is me, the ring, and my opponent.
Wearing only a pair of dark jeans, I step up to the ref and look at my opponent for the first time.
He’s tall, wiry, with crew-cut hair, and when he grins at me, I notice one of his front teeth is gold. Dropping my gaze to his bare hands, I see the white scars, telltale signs that he’s a regular on the circuit. His knuckles are already swollen, most likely from a fight earlier in the evening, and I shake my head.Idiot.
Doesn’t matter how skilled a fighter he might be. He’ll drain of energy before I do.
We bash our knuckles together, stepping toward our respective corners. For a split second, the crowd swells. Their chant a pressure wave that rushes toward me, crashing against my body and energizing me until I feel as though I’m going to explode if I don’t expend the excess energy.
As quickly as the noise rushes in, the ref blows the whistle and the world goes deathly silent. Like a lion latched on his next kill, my gaze zeroes in on my opponent as we size one another up. Who will be the predator, and who will be the prey? Who will be the victor, and who will be the poor chump left bleeding on the floor?
I can tell you one thing for certain: I’m never the chump.
One corner of my lips quirks in a cocky manner, and I turn my fist. Flexing two fingers, I tell him to bring it.
He rushes me.
I duck beneath his flyaway fist, smirking as I deliver a rapid one-two punch to his gut before stepping out of his reach. Snarling, he chases me. I allow him to land a solid hit to my jaw. The move brings us close enough that I can easily swipe out his legs, and he crashes to the mat. I pounce. Pinning him to the mat with my tree-trunk thighs, I lay blow after blow on him until he’s a bleeding, whimpering mess beneath me.
My opponent’s face blurs. I no longer feel the impact of his skin beneath mine nor the strain of my muscles every time I pull back my arm. The constant burning resentment rages like a forest fire, screaming for release with every punch.
One punch for the unfairness of it all.
One punch for the life torn away from me.
One punch because it’s all I know anymore.
Round and round I go, the anger bubbling until my punches slow. The rage ebbs. I can feel it slowly draining, trickling from me like water until it’s sitting at a low simmer, when someone pulls me off the lump of bloody meat.
My tunnel vision widens from a pinpoint at the high-pitched blare of the ref’s whistle as he barks for someone to remove my unconscious opponent. I blink, his face coming back into focus. It’s swollen and bloody, eyes glazed. Tilting my head to the side, I spit blood-tinged spit onto the mat as I shake off the person’s—Gray or Logan since no one else would dare to touch me—hold and get to my feet before striding away.
Blood rushes in my ears, deafening me to the screaming happening around me as I stuff my feet into my boots and throw on my hoodie.
The guys clap me on the shoulder as I step out of the ring, and knowing me as well as they do, they direct me to the bar. Seeing me approach, Xander—barman and owner of The Depot—sets a bottle of beer in front of me, along with a bag of ice for my hands.
“Ruthless as always,” he says with a smirk, before moving down the bar.
