2. Ivan

As they haul my bloodied carcass up from the cold terracotta floor the crowd's racket was deafening.

 "Eleven wins in a row!"

"He didn't stand a chance!"

“It’s not normal!”

I groaned in agony, squinting into the floodlights as the blinding red mist that had consumed me slowly lifted. Whilst being pulled out of the Cage's pit I caught a glimpse of the lifeless, mangled wreckage of a body that was my opponent.

Unfortunately I have no recollection of inflicting that much pain yet the metallic taste of blood in my mouth is indisputable. As are the agonising slashes across my bare ribcage. I have fought and won, again.

"You'll get first pick of the prizes tonight my champ! Take them all if you want you fucking hero!" Vincent yelled over the baying crowd. "He's magnificent!" he yelled, parading me through the parting crowd like a racehorse. The stench of overheated men made my lip curl up in disgust, making them shout with delight. “He wants more, look at him!”

Slaps on the back and manly cheers carried me through the throng of successful punters. Spit landed on me from those who had bet on it being my death this time. The arena’s dazzling spotlights and amphitheatre seating were quickly replaced with seedy, flickering strip lighting and bleak concrete corridors  as we wound into the bowels of the Cage.

As we lost the crowd, Vincent shouted to his son Kingsley, lurking at the far, dark end of one such corridor. “My lucky charm, this bastard! I’ve backed him since his second Showcase!” The slender Kingsley muttered congratulations but his sour face showed he had not wanted to see me return alive. 

The only similarity he shared with his hulking brute of a father was their steely grey, cold eyes. Whereas Vincent was huge, battle-scarred, extroverted and hot-tempered, Kingsley was more snake-like, always skulking around in his black suit. He appeared mild in nature, but vex him, and there was no way to predict what strange misfortune might come your way. 

Eleven fights had taught me to keep my head down and play nice if nothing else.

“Congratulations Ivan,” he said flatly, looking directly at me as he blocked the corridor. “Nobody has ever got through twelve, are you ready to become a legend?”

I looked down at my broken body. Blood gushed from a deep jagged wound in my ribs, my throat hurt and my leg had what looked like a tooth wedged into it. “It is up to Fate, as always,” I say demurely, knowing that all the slithering poser wants is for me to cower before him. 

I may be alive but I do not consider myself lucky. For the eleventh time my wolf has killed my opponent. I hate myself for being part of this vile business but there is no other choice.

Everyone knows the happy aspects of being a Werewolf, a shifter. We boast about the happiness bestowed by the Moon Goddess, placing a person on this earth entirely perfect for you. The ability to converse with the animal spirit and seek its guidance, something unique to our kind.

People do not talk about the other side. 

The fact that should one lose their mate they are wretched. It is a bereavement incomprehensible to those who merely lust. The mate bond is an intertwining of souls both human and animal. For that love to be shattered by the one you trust above all is almost blinding in its agony. Both sides of your spirit are in mourning when a rejection of the bond occurs.

Shifters also do not discuss the fact that having a wolf is a balancing act. It is not a jolly little angel on one's shoulder passing witty remarks for entertainment. An ancient spirit residing in your consciousness has more guile and cunning than we give them credit for. An inner wolf is not there purely for witty comments or thinking up quick chat up lines. 

Although my wolf did use to be very helpful in that area once upon another time.

However when you are vulnerable, or depressed, the animal side can instinctively fight for more control. A stronger say in your emotions. Like a rider trying to contain the reins of a runaway horse. The wolf is only meant to advise the right direction to their human, not crack a whip and take over all control.

It is why I find myself in this bloodied, agonising state. For my wolf will not allow me to kill myself.

I want to rejoin Azalea, my deceased mate on the other side. It has been four years. Yet Kohl, my wolf will not allow it. I have tried every method you can think of. Each time I came close he pulled back on the reins, yanking me to safety. My green eyes, previously bright and friendly, apparently take on a golden shimmer. 

In the packs, having such a close bond with your wolf was commended. It was seen as an indication that you and your wolf were mastering destiny together as the Moon Goddess intended. I no longer feel any pride in that shimmer. 

Surviving this eleventh bout in the Cage just means once again my own wolf has snatched the reins from me. That I am not the master of my own destiny.

In drinking and gambling to mad excess, hoping to perhaps anger someone into murdering me I wound up in this place. I owed Vincent a debt and realised the Cage could perhaps serve a purpose. 

Against my human will I now kill other shifters for my own survival in the hopes one of them will one day overpower my wolf's strength and finish us.

Somehow I have descended from greatness to the worst kind of brute.

The pain in my ribs awakens me sharply as we weave further through the dank corridors. A huge cheer echoes in the distance as the next bout is announced. Maxwell, my opponent has already been cleared away.

“Get him cleaned up, one more to go then get all the winners together.” Vincent licked his lips hungrily as he guided me towards the familiar clutch of haggard women in sackcloth tunics. “Then it’s prize time Ivan, make sure you get one tonight.”

As the women tended to my wounds I was stripped down to briefs. They slowly unwound the strapping from my hands, washed the drying blood from my skin. They were silent throughout. I assume they are probably repulsed by me and I could hardly blame them. What woman would want to tend the wounds of a man who was about to pick an abducted, terrified girl old enough to be their daughter as their personal instrument of pleasure?