Page 47 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

As my cheek stings with a phantom slap from my dad’s palm, I shake my head, dispelling the sensation and the accompanying memories from the first night he brought me here, worried if they invade my mind, I’ll get lost in the past and fail my family.

Some guy enters the ring, and my attention moves to him.

I blink away the haze dimming the edges of my vision.

The man announcing the fight grabs my wrist and holds my hand above my head.

My eyes roam over the crowd. The faces are all blurry and hard to make out. I blink hard, forcing my mind to clear.

Kill or be killed . The voice in my mind is sharper this time. My fingers clench, searching for a neck to strangle.

The announcer’s words cut through. “Maccon, The Wolf, Astoooooor!”

Businessmen rub elbows with made men, drug dealers, skin dealers, and everything in between.

The rich and the fucking powerful. This place isn’t for soft hearts.

It’s a sanctum for the worst humanity has to offer.

It’s been years since I’ve been in this ring, but nothing’s changed.

Cash trades hands, bets made and fates settled, and an almost feral desire for blood awakens, all of them practically foaming at the mouth for what’s to come. Fueled by cocaine and corruption.

I block it all out, a deafening silence filling my head.

The voice is nowhere to be found, though I already know what needs to be done.

Turning, I watch as my opponents enter the ring, and vague recognition flashes through my mind.

I can’t place where or how I know them. The announcer makes a show of introducing them.

I shake out my arms, bouncing from foot to foot, rolling out my neck, ensuring my body stays primed and ready.

The two big guys stare me down. One of them smirks, baring gold canines.

My eyes narrow. There’s only one fucker I’ve heard of with gold fangs, and he and his brother are known for brutally raping the wives of men they’re sent to kill.

The very thought of them touching Cassia sends a riot of rage through me.

Darius is trying to make a point. My gaze cuts to him, sitting on the platform constructed to overlook the ring, far away from the crowd and the blood splatter. He leans forward, resting his arms on his legs, and smirks.

He’s trying to throw me off my game. Taking a deep breath, I shove all emotions aside and drag that cold, animalistic resolve back to the surface, letting morals and humanity bleed from me until I’m the very creature he turned me into.

A predator.

When my opponents are done being announced, they fall into a fighting stance with practiced ease. The eager looks on their faces spell their demise, though. Anyone who grew up in this ring knows better than to be excited.

The two of them separate, coming at me from both sides, and I allow it.

These people didn’t come for quick deaths.

They want a show. I take a few hits before slipping out from under them and kicking the one on the left in the back.

He drops to his knees as the other lunges for me.

I grab his arm and throw him into the ropes, spinning and taking the hit the other guy launches at my face.

His fists smashes into my jaw, but I can’t feel it.

This little dance goes back and forth—them gaining the upper hand, beating me down, and me slowly gaining control again. About five minutes in, the two of them trade looks, their faces filling with apprehension as they realize a little too late that I’ve been playing with them.

I spit the blood filling my mouth from a split lip onto the concrete. They look at me. I nod, confirming what they suddenly understand. Even with two of them, this fight isn’t fair.

One of them shouts at the announcer, and the other tries to leave the ring, but the crowd blocks him, trapping him and his friend inside the ring.

There’s no escaping. They share another wary look, resolve straightening their spines.

Time to stop fucking around. They charge at the same time, rushing for me, losing focus in the wake of knowing they’re not escaping until this is over.

I stop holding back. I block every punch they throw, gain the offensive, and drop one with a blow to the temple.

Corner the one with gold teeth. He lashes out, sloppy fists that glance off my sweat-slicked skin.

I grab him, grasping his head, and with a brutal twist, forcing it around until his neck breaks.

I drop him and move to his friend, who’s slowly rousing.

His death is as swift as his friend’s, and I rise, ignoring the shouts of protest and the victorious screams. Aside from the numbness filling my insides, their deaths barely register.

It used to bother me, but at some point, taking a life became as easy as breathing.

It helps that these assholes deserved their deaths.

Though, there’s no reveling in the kill when you’ve been forced to do it.

It’s simply another choice ripped away from me.

Glaring up at where my dad sits on the platform, I spit out another glob of blood, my message clear.

Fuck you.