Way To Unleash Anger 1

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CHAPTER 22

~Arianna’s POV~

The cool night air hit me as we stepped outside, the heavy bass from the club muffled by the closed door behind us.

I wrenched my arm free, glaring up at him. “What the hell was that?”

“That?” he echoed, his voice dangerously calm as he turned to face me fully. “That was me keeping you from making an even bigger mistake.”

“I was just dancing!” I shot back and my voice rose. “You can’t just—just storm in and punch people because you’re angry!”

His lips twisted into a humorless smirk. “Oh, I wasn’t angry. Yet.”

My heart skipped a beat at the dark edge in his tone. “Where are we going now?”

He stepped closer, his towering presence swallowing the space between us. “To let out the anger you seem so determined to provoke.”

I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. The fire in his eyes was unnerving, but it was the restraint beneath it that sent a shiver down my spine.

He turned sharply, striding toward his car parked a short distance away. I hesitated for a moment before following. My heart pounded as I tried to keep up with his long strides.

The drive to wherever Damon was dragging me to was as tense as a tightly wound spring. His silence, punctuated only by the occasional tap of his fingers on the steering wheel, was more unnerving than any argument we could have had.

When we finally arrived, the car rolled to a stop in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The windows were dark, the structure looming ominously against the moonlit sky.

Before I could voice my confusion, sharp lights flickered in our direction. Cheers erupted from somewhere inside, and my stomach dropped.

“What is this place?” I demanded as Damon climbed out of the car.

He didn’t answer, simply opening my door and gripping my arm firmly, pulling me along.

The moment we stepped inside, the roaring of voices hit like a wave. The big all was filled with a clamor of cheers, laughter, and shouting. 

It took me a moment to take in the scene: a makeshift fighting ring sat in the center, surrounded by eager onlookers waving wads of cash and calling out bets.

People crowded around the ring, their faces flushed with excitement and adrenaline. Damon moved through the throng like a king among his subjects, nodding slightly as men and women hailed him, screaming his name like he was some sort of hero.

I stumbled behind him, trying to keep up as the crowd parted for him with reverence.

“Damon!” a burly man bellowed, clapping him on the back. “Didn’t think you’d show tonight!”

Damon lifted a hand in acknowledgment but didn’t stop, his focus fixed on the ring ahead.

The energy in the room was electric, and for a moment, I forgot my irritation, caught up in the spectacle. But as soon as Damon pulled me closer to the ring, reality came crashing back.

“This is what you call letting off steam?” I hissed, yanking my arm free from his grip.

He finally turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. “Stay put, Arianna. Let me do my thing.”

“Your thing?” I repeated incredulously, gesturing to the ring. “Beating people up is your thing?” I scoffed and folded my arms in front of my chest. “I cannot say I am surprised,” I muttered after recalling the man he beat up in the underground house.

Damon smirked faintly, his eyes glinting with that infuriating arrogance. “You wanted to see what I do,” he said, spreading his hands to both sides, “enjoy the show.”

Before I could argue, Damon stepped into the ring, shedding his jacket and rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. The crowd erupted into cheers once again, their excitement reaching a fever pitch.

I stayed where I was, arms crossed, seething. The scent of sweat and adrenaline filled the air as the announcer called out Damon’s name.

I squeezed my face in irritation. God!

At times like this I hated why my senses seemed to be sharpening. 

“Arianna, what are you even doing here?” I asked myself.

A man stepped into the ring opposite Damon, his build more imposing, his knuckles wrapped in bandages. The crowd roared, placing their bets eagerly. 

And before I knew what was happening, the match began.

At first, the larger man had the upper hand, landing blows that sent Damon reeling slightly. Gasps and cheers erupted as the two men danced around the ring, each move calculated and precise.

But then something shifted.

Damon’s movements became sharper, more purposeful. Within seconds, he turned the tide, delivering a series of brutal strikes that sent his opponent stumbling.

I watched, my emotions in turmoil. Anger bubbled beneath the surface, the memory of Damon cutting off my call to my boyfriend and controlling every aspect of my life making my blood boil.

Without thinking, I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Come on! You’ve got this, Tiger!”

But not to Damon.

The words were meant for his opponent.

Damon’s head whipped around at the sound of my voice, his eyes locking onto mine. They burned with fury, a silent warning.

I didn’t care. I shouted again, louder this time. “Tiger,” that was the name the audience called him, “You can beat him! Don’t give up!”

The crowd roared in confusion, but I didn’t falter.

Damon’s face darkened, and with a growl, he turned back to his opponent. His movements became more aggressive, each punch landing with a sickening thud. His opponent faltered under the onslaught, unable to keep up with the sudden ferocity.

My cheers faltered as I realized what was happening.

Damon wasn’t just fighting. He was taking out his anger—on his opponent, on the crowd, and, somehow, on me.

With each cheer I had rendered for Tiger, the man suffered it thrice more. He ,outhed something to me and my anger grew. 

“I warned you, mate.”