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  TWISTED: Round Two

  * * * *

  Copyright © 2015 by Skyla Madi

  Cover © Madi Design

  Edited by James T. Miller

  All rights reserved.

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  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events are entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products that may be referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  To my loyal readers,

  You are family.

  The Kitten

  Jai

  Pathetic.

  I fold my arms and lean against a worn, concrete pillar. Its eroded edges jab awkwardly into my body, but I couldn’t care less. The more uncomfortable I am, the less likely I am to fall asleep.

  The cage rattles and groans, straining under the weight of two fighters as they dance around each other, terrified of being hit. With every foot placed and punch dodged, they seal the lid on their own coffins. Skull isn’t going to want either of them.

  I turn my attention to the dodgy platform above the cage. Even though his graphic ink covers every inch of his face his disappointment comes through loud and clear. Standing here, watching this fight is a waste of time. It doesn’t matter who wins because, like I said, both are dead men dancing on borrowed time.

  It’s not uncommon for fights to run at such a casual pace. I mean, I’ve seen slower fights, sure, but down here their pace just isn’t going to cut it. You see, Skull doesn’t want your average run-of-the-mill fighter. He wants someone ruthless, more visceral. To join his crew you need to be merciless, you need to be raw, and you have to be willing to peel the face off of your opponent without hesitation. Of course, that’s easier said than done. Every thug has a flaw, and for the men surrounded by the rusted metal of the cage, it’s fear. They’re governed by their fear of pain. You can see it on their faces. They let their thoughts get the better of them. They let their emotions hold them back. The trick to destroying anyone is to be emotionless. I learned that a long time ago. You have to dehumanize them—see them as a sack of meat without a family; without a face. Every strike you throw has to be hard, fast, unforgiving, and thrown with the intent to kill. When you’re content with murder, there’s no fear.

  Only purpose.

  I flick my stare from the ratty cage and over to the right side of the room, spotting her immediately.

  Kitten.

  A painful pang of guilt twists my stomach. Fucking Kitten...I saved her ass and I guaranteed her a place here. Still she acts as though I’ve ruined her life. Emily treats me like I’m a bad person when I’ve been nothing but good to her. So I drugged a woman in order for her to win her round. Big deal. She wouldn’t be feeling so self-righteous if she knew what I had protected her from. Her opponent was Marishka ‘Killer’ Dimitrikov. I’d seen her a few times around various underground circuits. If the name isn’t obvious, the girl is dangerous—was dangerous. Once, I witnessed Marishka beat a grown man into submission. Though she’s tougher than she looks, Emily, the tiny but feisty Kitten, wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  Involuntarily, my gaze glues itself to the light sheen of sweat on her throat. The spotlight she stands by makes the bead of sweat that rolls into her cleavage visible, along with her heaving chest. As I watch her, I can almost feel her warm breath on my skin. She’s the most peculiar little thing... Hauntingly beautiful in that ‘lost’ kind of way. At a glance, she’s almost naïve looking, but that glint of mischief in her eyes tells you she’s not the kind of girl you can manipulate.

  She slips a portion of her tongue out to moisten her dry lips and all of the muscles in my torso tighten. To think that with all of the action going on around me, she’s the only thing that sends my heart pumping faster than the pistons on a steam train. It feels as though my heart will tear through my chest and take flight at any second.

  Infusing with the guilt swirling in the pit of my gut is lust, and I swallow in an attempt to moisten my dry throat. It’s the same stroke of lust that got me into this mess—the very same that fucked my plan and dragged down an innocent with me. As if that’s not a dangerous enough mix on its own, coiling tightly around the lust and guilt is a fierce emotion I haven’t felt in a long time—an emotion I’m not good at controlling.

  Jealousy.

  It carves its way through my bones, making sure it’s felt, and I hate it. Just thinking about her tummy tightening, limbs trembling, and heart pounding, caused by the men fighting in front of her, does crazy shit to my brain—to the jealousy in my bones.

  And I.

  Fucking.

  Hate it.

  The jealousy coursing through my body isn’t because I’ve caught feelings for the stupid girl who followed me through the darkness from the safety of the train. It stems from the sense of ownership I feel I have over her. I’ve been around her. On her. In her. I saved her life, I’ve kept her out of harm’s way and I’ve provided for her. I’m not about to step down now. Not when she needs me the most—regardless of how she sees it.

  A heavy thump sends the crowd into a frenzy and I keep my eyes on Kitten. She startles and swipes at a dark lock of hair stuck to her forehead. Then, her pretty, large eyes widen and sweep over the crowd. I try not to smirk as her terrified gaze seeks me out. It always does. She might be ignoring me, but she still needs me. I keep her safe and she knows it. As her stare meets mine, her body visibly relaxes, but her face hardens. Electrical currents dance along my spine and I don’t dare tear my eyes away. The current fight is the last fight for round one, meaning that round two is fast approaching—for the both of us. For the last eight days, I’ve given her the space she requested, and I haven’t engaged her in any conversations and yet she still regards me with as much resentment as she did the day before. I can’t take it anymore. I’m giving her another day to get over it on her own. If she doesn’t, then it’s up to me. I need to snap her out of her foul mood before it gets her killed, and me along with her. I get she doesn’t want anything to do with me, but she’s my responsibility. It’s my duty to get her out of here alive.

  Eventually, her stare returns to the cage and mine follows suit. The red-head parades around the pen, his arms up, demanding praise for his victory. I didn’t see the knockout, but judging by Skull’s face, it wasn’t that impressive. Skull taps his fingers along the railing with deadly purpose. I’d say he’s contemplating the outcome of the fight. I’d also say he’s about to change it. The crowd roars on, oblivious to the epitome of frustration lingering above their heads. Skull glances over his shoulder at two of his men and gives a swift jerk of his head. They leave through the small exit and Skull turns his attention back to the crowd. His eyes flick over every person that cheers for the insipid fighter and when his stare sweeps to the right side of the room, he pauses and his lips curve into a
wicked smirk. I don’t need to follow his line of sight to know he’s looking at Emily. No matter where she stands he always finds her, always torments her with his fucking smirks. As far as Skull’s concerned, he owns Kitten, and he’s tattooed a skull on her collarbone to prove it. A small itch irritates my own collarbone in the exact same place Skull had his goons etch their foul ink into me. Skull thinks he owns me too, but it’d be a cold day in hell before I let that happen. I’ve never desired having a tattoo and the thought of someone putting one on me without my permission makes me sick. But these are the things I have to do.

  To save Joel.

  To save Kitten.

  To bring Skull’s empire down and bury him six feet under. The streets won’t be safe until he’s gone and, sadly, there’s not a judge in New York City he doesn’t control, and there’s no jury that’ll convict him. Death is the only outcome for a man like Skull.

  Skull lazily raises a long, thick, and tattooed arm and suddenly, the crowd falls silent. He amuses over the silence for a small eternity and leans forward on his elbows against the railing in front of him. His posture is loose, his face slack. To the untrained eye he comes across as casual—happy even—but it doesn’t fool me. There’s no humor in his eyes, or in the way he clenches one of his fists. Below him, his goons enter our space—a space I now like to refer to as ‘general population’—and I know they’re not here to hand out lollipops, that’s for sure.

  I push off of the column, neglecting to brush the dust off my black tee, as Skull chuckles. I don’t like the way it sends dread hurtling through my stomach. It sets me on edge.

  “You win,” he announces, smiling ruthlessly. “That means a congratulations must be in order, right?”

  The winner cheers and smiles triumphantly, thrusting his fists in the air.

  Poor bastard.

  Adrenaline must be pounding so ferociously in his ears that he can’t hear the malevolent tone in Skull’s voice. A tone that spits so much acid it’s eating away his victory. I scan the crowd. They hear it and they’ve backed away from the cage as a result. I don’t take my eyes off Skull as I sidestep through the crowd, slowly making my way over to Kitten. She won’t be able to handle what’s coming. She never can.

  The cage rattles and creaks as his two boys pry open the cage door. I shift my attention to Emily who’s watching intently. Warm, sticky, and murmuring bodies slide against me as I squeeze between the spectators, lessening the gap between Emily and me. I take three more steps and a gruesome thump prevents me from taking a fourth. A collective gasp rings around the crowded space and I turn to the cage.

  Crunch.

  Thump.

  Snap.

  The sounds of the victor’s bones being turned to dust underneath heavy, leather boots is all I can hear. His copper red hair, now brown with blood, sticks to his skull and runs over his face. Bruises already begin to manifest, painting his twisted bones into shades of purple and blue.

  “Wrong,” Skull shouts, pushing off the railing. “That fight was pathetic. Death to anyone who fucking bores me.”

  He brushes his long, tattooed fingers against the shoulder of his red shirt before turning and disappearing through the hole in the concrete behind him. No one speaks and no one moves as his men grab the bodies and sling them over their shoulders. These two men, the fighters, will be the third and fourth bodies to go over the railing in six days, making tonight the third night I’ll have to hold Kitten’s trembling body. She has nightmares, I make them better, and still she hates me. It makes no sense.

  Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize just how close I am to her. I’m close enough to see the water that glazes the surface of her eyes, and wets her eyelashes. I’m close enough to see her nostrils flare, and chest spasm as she holds in her tears. I’ve never met someone so sensitive… so humane. My circle is filled with fighters—with killers. I don’t like what Skull’s doing, but it doesn’t stir any emotion in me. Does that make me a bad person?

  I lift my hand, barely, and it brushes hers.

  Am I a bad person?

  Pain

  Emily

  Jesus!

  I gasp and flinch away from the warm fingers suddenly caressing the back of my hand. I snap my head to the side and my pulse beats too fast under my skin as I make eye contact with him.

  Jai Stone.

  His eyebrows are drawn, his lips pressed into a firm line. It’s a look of concern and compassion—a look I’ve come to expect from him. I shouldn’t be so surprised he’s here by my side at the first sign of trouble. Jai always manages to find me when I need it, and I hate the fact that the distress plainly visible on my face, is the very reason why he finds me.

  I’m not weak.

  I straighten my shoulders to appear unbothered, despite the terror that clings to me. He should stay away from me. Didn’t he see the way Skull looked at me? He has me in his grasp, and that’s not a good thing for Jai. Especially when he wants Skull’s head and I’m the only other person down here privy to that information. Not to mention the fact I have an extremely low pain threshold. If Skull demands information while gripping the hilt of a knife, I might not be able to keep my mouth shut.

  Despite our feud, I swallow hard and unclench my hand, exposing my palm. Two men are about to die and I need comfort. I need to be comforted by the only person who can comfort me. Warm tingles exude from his fingertips and dance across my palm. I marvel at the softness of his touch. How is such a thing possible with hands as rough and as calloused as his? I’ve seen what they’re capable of. The very fingers that offer me gentle comfort now, were clenched and dripping in someone else’s blood not so long ago. What else can his body mask so effortlessly I wonder? Deep down, is he a killer or a man who will do anything to save his brother? When it comes down to it, are the two that different? I can’t answer that. I don’t have anyone in my life I’d kill for.

  My insides tighten with tension as Skull’s men carry the broken bodies from the cage and over to the railing. I study the thug’s faces, my heart threatening to beat holes in my chest. What is going through their heads at this moment? Do they feel any discomfort at all? Taking a life can’t be easy and I wonder if they think about it later on. Or are they dead inside? Maybe it comes easy to them—like doing the dishes or taking out the trash. I don’t know how they do it. I’ve had no part in it and yet I feel guilty, and I suppose in a way, I’m just as responsible for their murder as Skull is.

  One of the goons, the one with the bald head and loose jeans, lifts the ‘winner’ over his head and holds him there for everyone to see. I look away from his twisted body. I’m on edge. My heart shudders and shakes like a million tiny birds are trapped inside, their thrumming wings unstoppable. Heat, a nervous heat, blooms in my armpits and down my spine. It takes everything in me not to cry. I want to cry, but I’m afraid of being weak and down here you can’t be weak. I want to be strong—like Jai. Maybe what bothers me most about what he did, is that he did it, seemingly without thought. He did what he had to do. There was no worry, no confusion. He pulled his emotions out of it and secured a position in round two. No one had to save him and no one helped him. He did it all on his own. Jai is strong and brave—and as much as it kills me to say it—I envy him. And I hate it.

  Curious, I make the mistake of looking back to the thugs at the edge of the bottomless tunnel just as the second body goes over the railing. His lifeless body rises up through the air in slow motion before it plummets like a comet and falls out of sight. My stomach churns. My pulse slows to a laborious, sad beat, and it echoes in the silence of the room as quiet tears spill over the rims of my eyes.

  “It’s over,” Jai murmurs in my ear and I close my eyes.

  He moves behind me, caressing both of my arms with his rough hands. As the crowd dissipates, I let Jai comfort me for a little while longer. When I’m numb, I’m not mad at him. I’m not anything.

  When everyone is almost gone, sickness oozes over me like slime and I fight the urge t
o power chuck everywhere. I help save lives. I don’t stand by and watch them end.

  “It’s far from over,” I tell him, opening my eyes.

  It’s not over until the last fight has been fought—until Skull has crowned his new minion. I’ll never kill for him. Skull can extort information from me, he can tease me, torment me, torture me, but he’ll never use me to take a life. I won’t have that on my conscience. Some of these other fighters choose to take lives... they choose to fight in the name of Skull. Jai included. Every day I ask myself why Joel’s life is worth more than anyone else’s. Why is he worth saving and risking your life for, but no one else here is? My anger comes back then, rushing through me like nothing else. It consumes me.

  Burns me.

  Fuels me.

  I pull myself from Jai’s hands and storm away. I want nothing more than to leave my conscience and my virtues at the door, and to fight through this, doing whatever is requested of me. But I can’t. That’s not me. Don’t get me wrong. I am a fighter, make no mistake about that. I’m just not the kind of fighter they are. My battles are emotional, not physical. Most days, I fight for the lives of others so they can spend more time with their loved ones. That’s how I live my life. I can’t change now. I won’t.

  * * * *

  I inhale deeply, letting the heavy, moldy air burn my lungs as I hold it in. I stare at the decaying wall in front of me, trying desperately to calm the painful pulse in my chest and where my head meets my neck. If my death doesn’t involve a fighter crushing me to a pulp I’m sure it’ll involve a brain aneurysm. Is it possible for your skull to compress and crush your brain? I feel like I should know this.

  This place gives me a headache. I can’t handle it. The suspense, the drama, the games. How can people live like this? I take back every negative thing I’ve ever said about my previous life. I love it and I miss it.

  It was so simple.

  I got up, I went to the hospital, I came home and I slept. Rinse and repeat. I often begged for excitement or a change. Too many times I imagined a blackout at the hospital or a mugging on the train. I wanted something—anything—to happen to distract me from my everyday life.