Page 40 of Deviant Need

Each impact sends a jolt up through my wrist, bones breaking under leather and tape. His face isn’t recognizable anymore, just raw meat and blood mixing together.

Someone catches my shoulder from behind, trying to pull me back, and shouts that the fight’s over, then I hear someone from Tiago’s corner screaming at me.

“Fucking Avrorin trash! Your whole fucking family is⁠—”

Everything stops. The grip on my shoulder tightens, but their voice vanishes. My vision tunnels hard on the group of them pressed against the barrier.

I shove whoever it is off me, and he hits the mat. Security’s coming, but I’m already moving, sprinting across the cage. The fence is right there, and I jump, fingers catching the chain-link, and haul myself up. Someone’s yelling behind me, but I’m over the top, dropping down into the crowd on the other side.

The guy who was talking sees me coming, and his face goes white. He tries to scramble back, but there are too many people packed in and nowhere for him to go. I grab him by the throat and slam my fist into his face. Once. Twice. His nose explodes and blood sprays hot across my knuckles.

His buddy lunges at me from the side, and I catch him with an elbow to the temple. Another one tries to latch onto my arm, and I spin, driving my fist into his ribs. The crack is satisfying even through all the noise.

People are screaming now, trying to get away, but I’m laser-focused on the mouthy one. I grab him by his shirt and throw him into the barrier, the metal rattling loudly.

He’s choking on blood, trying to say something, and I lean in close. “What was that? Couldn’t hear you.”

Then I’m hitting him again, my fist connecting with his jaw, his cheek, anywhere I can reach. Someone jumps on my back, and I throw myself backward, slamming whoever it is into the concrete. They let go with a grunt, and I’m back on the first guy, dragging him forward by his collar.

Security’s still pushing through the crowd, but they’re too slow. I get two more hits in before hands lock onto me from behind, multiple sets, trying to haul me backward. I thrash against them, still swinging. My elbow catches someone in the ribs, and they grunt but don’t let go.

More hands pile on, and suddenly, there are five or six of them dragging me back, my feet barely touching the ground. I’m still trying to break free, twisting and kicking. One of my feet connects with someone’s shin, and they curse, but their grip doesn’t loosen.

The crowd’s going insane, phones everywhere, recording everything. This is definitely going viral. Father’s going to see this. Fuck, Father’s going to see this.

I’m suddenly aware that I might’ve just fucked up.

Might’ve.

They’re dragging me down the hallway now, away from the cage, away from the crowd still losing their minds. My shoulders are screaming from how tight they’re gripping me, and my feet keep catching on the concrete as they haul me backward.

“You done?” one of the security guys grunts in my ear.

“Nyet. Probably not,” I say, because honestly who knows at this point.

They drag me all the way to the locker room and shove me inside, and I stumble forward and catch myself on the bench. The door slams shut behind me, and I can hear them talking outside, probably deciding if they need to stand guard.

The room’s too bright, and everything’s spinning now. The adrenaline’s crashing hard, and my hands won’t stop shaking. There’s blood everywhere. I’m covered in it. Some of it’s mine, most of it’s not.

Suddenly the door bangs open, and Carlos storms in, his face that shade of purple-red where you can see every vein in his forehead. “You broke the only rule that matters. No attacking the crowd. That’s it. That’s the one thing you don’t do.” He takes a step closer. “Tiago’s dead.”

Pulling off my gloves, I find blood soaked through the tape underneath, and my knuckles are wrecked. “They were asking for it,” I grumble.

Carlos’s voice cracks. “Mikhail.”

He steps close and grabs my face, trying to force me to look at him. I shove him back so hard that he stumbles and has to catch himself against the wall, his brown eyes locked on mine with pure fury. For a second I think he might swing on me.

He throws up his hands and walks out, done with me. My ass hits the bench, and I sit down heavily, wiping the sweat out of my eyes with shaking hands. The adrenaline is starting to drain now, leaving behind the familiar hollow feeling that always comes after a fight.

Getting that aggression out helped, even if it’s temporary.

Standing up, I strip off my shorts and wraps and snag my towel before heading for the showers.

The hot water stings against the cuts and bruises already forming, and the pain feels good. I wash quickly, slathering myself with body wash and scrubbing away the blood coating my knuckles and smeared across my skin from where his face exploded against my fists.

When I reach the bench again, I wince when I see a text from my father lighting up my phone screen.

Papa: