Wraith: A Second Chance Dark Romance (Masters of Mayhem Book 1) Read online

  Nor was it easy for me to end the seven opponents who came before him.

  Felix’s face will make eight I’ll never unsee.

  Eight men whose blood will slowly drown me until I’m dead.

  But not today.

  As Crane’s current champion, I’ve become the perfect monster. The reigning fan favorite. The main attraction who draws a prestigious crowd. Shit, even Marion County’s mayor turned out for tonight’s event. Corrupt prick was waiting for me when the handlers brought me up from the dungeon. Claimed he wanted to meet me. Bullshit. His actual motive was to warn me that I’d better win because he has a fortune riding on my match.

  Politicians. Gotta love the worthless douchebags.

  I raise my arm to deliver the killing blow that will put a shitload of money in Mayor Dickhead’s pocket.

  The mob chants the name Crane gave me, and it makes my skin crawl.

  Atticus. Atticus. Atticus.

  The noise disorients me as I tower over Felix. With my fist hovering in midair, I pause. Waiting… Felix gives me a barely perceptible nod. A silent plea to end his agony. The steel links of the octagon close in on me. My heart hammers a punishing beat. I lick chapped lips and taste Felix’s defeat mingled with the coppery tang of blood.

  I’m fucking sorry, man.

  This isn’t me.

  You sure?

  I silence my conscience with the fact that I’ve never murdered an innocent man until I was brought to Gomorrah and forced into the cage.

  Two hundred twenty pounds drives my fist. The punch nails Felix square in the temple. The unstoppable force colliding with a solid object cracks skull. Felix’s head snaps to the side. His torso twists at the waist. He hangs there, suspended, then tips forward. He hits the mat with a heavy thud.

  He twitches.

  His body stills.

  Blood pools under his head.

  Fight’s over.

  Rage and regret collide when I spin to face Crane. The object of my fury sits front row with his slicked-back blond hair and expensive gray suit. A false idol among mortals. I gnash my teeth and snarl at the crowd, giving them the animal they demand. Politicians and law enforcement pepper the crush of bodies. Greedy bastards are on Crane’s payroll, relishing the violence as they applaud my ignoble victory.

  I may be the weapon, but the crowd crammed inside the Coliseum is equally responsible for Felix’s death.

  I’m about to turn away, the sight of them repulsive, but a face catches my attention. The world tunnels, and all I see is her, sitting beside Crane with an expression as blank as Felix’s. She’s an understated spectacle in a white dress among the garish mob. A cloud of wavy brown hair tumbles over her shoulders. Angular features remind me of a grown version of someone I forced myself to forget. Someone I can’t afford to remember. Not here, because she’s my one weakness, and if there’s one thing I can’t be in Gomorrah, it’s vulnerable.

  With hands clasped on her lap, the woman watches me, and I swear she can see straight to my fucking soul. Right down to the filth festering inside me. To the monster clawing at my skull, fighting to break free. But there’s no judgment in her striking eyes. Those eyes that weave a spell and, bizarrely, calms the rage sizzling through my veins.

  Maybe Felix isn’t the only man who died in the cage. Maybe she’s an angel come to usher me out of this hell.

  Nah. I’m in too much pain to be dead.

  And I’m sure as shit not bound for heaven.

  I earned a place in hell on my eighteenth birthday. The day I became an Unholy.

  Spell’s broken. I tear my gaze from her and swipe my arm across my eyes to clear away the blood and sweat before flipping Crane the middle finger. Satisfaction is its own reward when the gesture wipes the cocky grin off his tanned face.

  Gratification lasts seconds. Exhaustion gets the better of me, and my legs buckle. I land in a heaving heap, with my head slamming against the mat. I’m less than a foot from Felix’s corpse. His eyes are glossed over as they stare at me in frozen serenity.

  I flip on my back. The movement takes almost more effort than I have left in me. I blink against the glow of the lights as visions of my life flood my mind. Of nights raising hell with Jester—who was known as Luke before he became Unholy. We’re more brothers than friends and spent too many drunken weekends at the Unholy’s clubhouse, Sanctum. We stood shoulder to shoulder the day we joined the gang and bled together more times than I can count whenever trouble came knocking on Mayhem’s door.

  The Unholy may not share DNA, but we’re a family, and I know they’re tearing the world apart looking for me.

  Loyalty. Devotion. That’s the only language the Unholy speak. Fuck with one of us, fuck with all of us. Ambush, abduct, and torture one of us… Yeah, you’re asking for a special kind of revenge. And when I get out of here, I’m coming back with an army of Unholy to burn this fucking place to the ground.

  And I am going home.

  Question is, which version of me will return to Mayhem—the man I was before Crane took me, or the monster Gomorrah created?

  Dread strangles me because of what’s coming next. Crane uses liquid pain to keep us compliant. Grudgingly, I admit it’s diabolically brilliant.

  Medical advances were the one good to come out of America’s Second Civil War. Nz822, street name noz, the one everyone calls a miracle drug, lessened a soldier’s downtime after an injury. Got them healed and returned to battle within days. They even found it worked on certain types of cancers if the tumor was caught early enough. The government controls it, and that’s why there’s still cancer. No money in the cure. But Crane knows the right people, and noz flows like water in Gomorrah. He drowns us in it after a fight or torture session. Makes sure we’re good and healed so he can hurt us all over again in an endless cycle of pain.

  Fun times, man.

  Ketaphrin, better known as ket, is liquid agony. It fucks with the brain’s receptors, sending out empty pain signals. Labeled a crime against humanity, ket was banned after the war. But Crane has a supply chain for that, too, and uses the shit as an added layer of security. As long as he pumps us with it, we’re useless sacks of meat unable to defend ourselves against the sadistic guards.

  When the door of the cage flies open, I snap out of my stupor, and my body tenses on instinct. Two handlers storm in brandishing cattle prods. Too battered and exhausted to resist, I lift my arms and offer them my wrists. Compliance doesn’t spare me. Instead of binding me with zip ties, Lyle zaps me. I clench my teeth as electricity seizes my muscles and vibrates my bones. The stink of charred flesh sickens me—and gives me two more burns to add to the growing collection.

  I struggle not to vomit as the crowd’s roar of approval shakes the Coliseum. I remind myself to breathe and work to stay awake. I know what Crane does to unconscious men for the mob’s amusement.

  It’s not pretty.

  Lyle kneels beside me, syringe in hand. “Lookie what I got.”

  I bite back a hiss at the jab of the needle into the side of my neck. Liquid heat slides through my vein, easing the cattle prod’s sting. Relief lasts seconds. In its wake comes a flood of knives that rip me apart from the inside out. As always, my dick hardens, pleasure and pain twisting in my mind until I don’t know what my body loves more—agony or bliss.

  Goddamn ket. When you’re on it, the drug makes you need the exquisite torture on a cellular level.

  See? Diabolical.

  Lyle slaps my head. “You ain’t sleeping, are you?”

  I fight the urge to kill the prick as I push to my feet. Lyle’s not done having his fun with me. A solid kick to the back of my knee nearly puts me back on my ass. I take his measure through the filthy ropes of hair hanging over my eyes. Purely on instinct, I move to lunge at him, but Thomas stops me.

  His hand clamps on my shoulder. “It’s not worth it.”

  Bullshit.

  Even fucked up, I’m stronger than both guards. I can take their weapons easy and beat them half
to death before anyone can charge in and stop me. But I don’t, because Thomas is right, damn him. The consequences I’ll face aren’t worth the momentary satisfaction of breaking Lyle’s jaw.

  Or outright killing the asshole. At least not yet.

  “He’s a dead man,” I growl.

  “But not tonight.” Thomas, who’s only a few years older than me, holds out a zip tie. “Hands, Atticus.”

  “Not my name.” I shove my arms behind me and give him my back.

  “It is in here.” He binds my wrists and ushers me out of the cage.

  Thomas takes the lead, sandwiching me between him and Lyle. Nothing good happens when the little asshole is behind me. My muscles tense at the buzz of the cattle prod a fraction of a second before the contact tips fry me. Again. I trip down the three steps of the raised platform as electricity sizzles every cell in my body. My head cracks against a post. Knocked nearly unconscious, I need a second to catch my breath and for my brain to stop vibrating inside my skull.

  Laughter resonates around me, but I couldn’t care less. I’m beyond humiliation. Nor can I heft myself to my feet. I stay right where I am, my gaze locked on the woman in the white dress. She’s too damn pretty for this place, and I can’t help thinking I’ve seen her before. Her face is a faded dream teasing the edges of my confused mind. God, I can stare at her all night. Her flawless face fascinates me. But Lyle tugs at me, and I grit my teeth as I heft myself up.

  Crane motions to his bodyguard. The buff henchman takes the lead, and Crane rises from his chair with an air of supremacy. He strolls up the aisle without a backward glance. The woman shoots to her feet and follows him, and she’s so small she has to race to catch up with him. A second bodyguard completes their four-person procession as the mob parts to let them pass.

  The arena snaps into focus, and I hear Thomas demand, “Seriously?”

  Lyle shrugs. “Next time, he’ll think twice before eyeballing me.”

  Thomas rubs his temples in frustration, something he often does around Lyle. The younger guard is a brat who sulks when he’s chastised or doesn’t get his way. “Hit him again with it, and I’m writing up a formal complaint.”

  As if that’ll do a good goddamn thing.

  “I ain’t making no promises.” Lyle shoves me to get me moving. “Walk, asshole.”

  I struggle to catch my breath as Lyle pushes me toward the back of the arena. Thomas files in behind me as we cut a slow path through the chaotic horde. My bare feet crunch down on cigar and cigarette butts, spit, spilled drinks, and God knows what else. People don’t part for us as they did for Crane. Instead, they close in. Grope me. Pull at my hair. A woman launches herself at me in a blur of too much makeup and not enough clothing. She wraps herself around me, drenching my face with sloppy kisses.

  I try to pry her off, but she grips me tighter. Her nails, sharpened to friggin’ claws, scratch across my shoulder blades, digging trenches in the skin.

  It takes Thomas and Lyle to drag her away.

  “No touching,” Thomas yells over the noise as he sets her on her feet.

  Then we’re moving again, with Lyle yanking me along.

  “You gotta walk faster,” Thomas urges from behind.

  The fuck?

  Does he think I’m moseying for the fun of it? My legs can barely support my weight.

  By the time we finally make it through the crush, a guard, dressed head to foot in black tactical gear and wielding an AK-47, opens the steel door at our approach. Beyond the threshold is a corridor leading down to the dungeon. The air in here is thinner, cooler, the noise of the arena muffled. When the door closes, the click of the lock sliding into place is a harsh reality check of the insurmountable obstacles between me and freedom. Impossible hurdles I’ll need to navigate to escape this waking nightmare.

  Harsh fluorescent bulbs hum overhead as we trek the decline that ends in the building’s bowels. Cameras, affixed to the low ceiling, are eyes in the sky watching us as we near the dungeon. The distant slap of leather against flesh mingles with a symphony of cries that grow louder the closer we get to our destination. I can’t block out those wails.

  Mine, I know, will join the chorus in due time.

  I’ve spent my first twenty-four years believing I was invincible.

  This place cured me of my delusion real quick.

  My arrogance was astounding. I thought Crane couldn’t break me. Hell, I’d even scorned the prisoners who’d whimpered into the dark long after the dungeon quieted for the night. Naively thought those men were pussies. But Crane and his men are artists when it comes to pain, and our bodies are their canvases.

  At the gate, Lyle blows a kiss at the camera. The door slides open, the groan and grind of metal echoing throughout the interwoven corridors.

  Once we’re past the first barrier, the door bangs closed behind us, sealing us inside the Hub. Two guards man the control booth, protected behind shatterproof glass. One jailer backs away from the window. Does he think I’m stupid enough to try to bust my way in, and what...? Kill them with my hands zip tied behind me? I mean, shit, I’m good, but not that good.

  “Look who’s still with us.” Adam’s voice sounds from a speaker fastened above the glass. The ballsy bastard gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Yep. Atticus done won himself another fight.” Lyle claps me on the back over the spot where the woman scratched me. “What’s this make, five wins?”

  Eight.

  “Congratu-fucking-lations. You get extra chow tomorrow,” Pete announces.

  Outstanding. Two helpings of slop. Can’t wait.

  “Come on.” Thomas grabs me by the upper arm and hauls my half-crippled ass across the large, open area.

  “Easy,” I hiss.

  “Geez, we’re just congratulating the man,” Adam grouches.

  The ket’s kicking in hard. The air is hot and stale, and despite the oppressive heat, I shiver as I stumble over my feet. Agony slices at my nerves with a surgeon’s precision. I double over, gagging.

  Lyle yanks me upright and continues through the dungeon’s main chamber. “Ain’t got all day.”

  I straighten and shuffle through the Hub, which branches off into four sections. Three corridors are blocked by steel doors. Lightweights and welterweights are kept together down one unit. Middleweights and heavyweights are housed in another. After I defeated the previous champion, they moved me from there to Elite, and I’m still deciding if the only single-celled unit’s solitude is a blessing or a curse.

  A gym and a disgusting, sad excuse for a shower is in the fourth corridor. And at the very end of that hallway is the torture room. It’s nasty as fuck in there, with every instrument imaginable to inflict massive damage to a human body.

  Can’t count how many times I’ve seen inside that room, but it’s too damn many.

  Thomas unlocks the steel door and kicks it open.

  Lyle shoves past him and pats his knees while making kissing sounds. “Come on, puppy. Time to get in your cage.”

  I’m a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them. However, I’m hovering dangerously close to losing my shit and doing something stupid.

  I shuffle over to Lyle. Get up close and personal with the fucker. “One day, you and I are gonna have a go.”

  By now, I’ve got Lyle figured out. Wasn’t hard. The guy is one-dimensional. He’s an insecure moron who hides his shortcomings behind false bravado. He wouldn’t last a night in Mayhem.

  Lyle’s Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “You threatening me, Atticus?”

  My cruel grin is an intimidation tactic, and it works. I can smell the fear on him. “Stating a fact.”

  Thomas fires his cattle prod but doesn’t fry me. “Back off.”

  Like I give a shit about being shocked again. But the ket takes full effect, and I fight against gravity as pain tries to take me down.

  “Dammit,” Thomas mutters. “Help me get him in the cell.”

  Lyle snorts. “I ain’t his caretaker.”

/>   “Whatever,” Thomas snaps. “Go away, Lyle.”

  Lyle throws a mini tantrum as he huffs out of Elite.

  “You can’t keep doing this.” Thomas cuts the zip ties and holds out his hand. I slap it away.

  “I can walk.” I limp into the cell. “Lyle’s a jerkoff.”

  “A jerkoff who can make your life miserable.”

  I grunt out a humorless laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I didn’t mean…” Thomas lets the sentence trail off. “Can you get on the bed yourself, or do you need help?”

  “I got it,” I slur.

  No, I don’t, but I’ll be damned if I accept a guard’s help—even if it’s coming from Thomas, who’s not an asshole like the others.

  It takes my remaining energy to climb on the disgusting mattress. The thing is stiff, crusty, and bloodstained. It stinks of urine, and when I settle on my back and fling one arm over my eyes, I fist the other at my side, praying for sleep to come quick.

  “What do you need before I go?”

  Thomas and I have a strange relationship. Not friends, but not enemies. I’m still killing him along with everyone else in Gomorrah, but until then, he’s the closest thing I have to an ally.

  “A gun.”

  “Sleep it off, Atticus.”

  The cell door slams shut, and his footsteps fade. Lucky prick. He’s walking toward freedom and fresh air.

  I lie awake and stare into the darkness as I ride waves of agony and reminisce about life’s simple luxuries. Hot showers. Warm food. A clean body. A soft bed. And as I finally, blissfully, float off into the abyss, I dream about an angel in a white dress.

  2

  Wraith

  “Wakey, wakey, dickhead.”

  The demand pulls me out of sleep about a half a second before I’m drenched by a tidal wave of ice water. Not my favorite wake-up call, but one that’s fairly common.