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chapter
one
Some people really don’t know when to tap out.
Rolling my eyes, I step over the guy passed out in the middle of the gym’s octagonal cage. He could have walked out of here, if he’d just had the sense to quit while he was behind.
Eh. Maybe.
Depends on my mood, I guess.
After winning four straight sparring matches, I should be feeling pretty fucking good right now.
That’s when I hear them. Two of the little bitches from the featherweight division. They’ve been watching me for the last three rounds, whispering in the corner like middle-schoolers at a dance.
“They call him Ghost,” I hear one of them hiss.
Jesus. Again with the nicknames.
Ignoring them, I shove my shit into my duffle bag. Gym rules dictate that we clean up our own bodily fluids, so I swipe my sweat off the bench and then my chest.
I’m not thorough because fuck this place. I’ve always said it’s too nice in here, but leave it to the Thorne Pack to make my punk ass fight in a bougie gym like this one.
There aren’t even any beat-up lockers or smelly punching bags. No, this place is all shiny black vinyl fencing and steel pillars. With the gym’s logo printed on the custom canvas stretched on the bottom of the cage.
Huh.
Guess I did get a lot of blood on that.
Not my fault this fucker is a bleeder, though. He can clean it when he wakes up.
If he wakes up.
Whatever. With what my pack pays for my membership here, they can afford a new canvas. Besides, no one would miss the printed one. Their dumb logo is all over the place. Some pretentious bullshit displaying the name I’ve never bothered remembering because I don’t belong to this place.
I don’t belong to anyone, and that’s the way I fucking like it.
The bitch boys in the corner keep talking their shit. “I heard he doesn’t even have a coach. How the fuck did he get called up without a coach?”
I almost smile. On the inside.
News must be getting around. I figured it was only a matter of time before they all heard about me moving up. I wonder when the crows will start circling. Looking for tender places to pick meat off my bones.
Idiots. Don’t they know why people call me Ghost?
The second I look at them, they both clam up. The metallic tang of fear fills the room as I sling my bag over my shoulder, shove past them, and leave the guy I defeated lying in the ring behind me.
As a warning.
Why the fuck am I here?
I ask myself all the time.
Every morning I shower under a rain faucet head in a marble fucking bathroom. Every time I start the 1965 Mustang Tristan bought for my twenty-fifth birthday. Every time I have to put on a goddamn tie.
Why. Am. I. Here?
There’s something wrong with me. Many things. I know that. Alphas are supposed to want a pack, other strong alphas to have their backs.
