Page 22 of His Asset
Chapter Nine
Iturned away, my hearthammering.The roar of the crowd melted into white noise.All I could hear was the blood rushing through my ears and the echo of one name in my head.
Adam.
A movement on the massive screen caught my eye.It showed Reuben—Chief—in close-up, his hard gaze focused on me.Then he nodded.Not to the crowd.Not to the cameras.Not even to me.
To someone else.
My stomach dropped as the truth dawned.His nod mightn’t be to me, but it was about me.
This was just another damn prison.
I spun toward the nearest exit, shoving past two drunken men, one in a tailored black suit and white dress shirt, the other in a cheap, yellowed T-shirt and ripped denim shorts.Someone yelled, but I didn’t stop.I needed out.I needed air.I needed distance between me and every camera in this cursed place.
I didn’t make it far.
Two men in the same gray suits as the security outside stepped into my path.They weren’t here for the show.They were Reuben’s men.They were here for me.
“Sorry, Miss,” one said, voice even and eyes cold.“You’re not cleared to leave just yet.”
My wings strained under my denim jacket, instinctively twitching to break free, to launch me up and away.If only they weren’t next to useless.One day I’d learn how to use them properly so that I didn’t just glide.Either way, I couldn’t blow my cover.
If I did, all this would have been for nothing.
It didn’t stop me from taking a step back, straight into someone behind me.
“Watch out, bitch,” snarled a woman with bright red lips, heavy diamond earrings and manicured crimson nails that looked like talons wrapped around her wine glass.I flinched.Clearly the wealthy were no more civilized here than beggars were on the street.
The second suit drew me away.“Chief says ringside.”
My heart gave a few frantic beats.The closer to the action, the more likely I’d be seen.I shook my head.“No.I don’t want—”
“It wasn’t a question.”He probably didn’t want to forcibly drag me there, but the threat hung in the air, a silent warning that he’d do whatever he was ordered to do.My options were narrowing fast.
The crowd cheered as Bloodhound flexed and cracked his neck, the big screen above showcasing his every move.
Chief stood immobile in the ring, like a statue, watching everything unfold.Calculating.Cold.
Only once I was escorted to a ringside seat, level with the raised platform, did he finally turn his head and lock eyes with Bloodhound.
The lights dimmed.
A beat.A hush.
Then the spotlight snapped on, bright and unrelenting on the fighters.
The announcer’s voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, your main event!Chief versus Bloodhound!”
The crowd roared.The cameras swept over the fighters as they circled, bodies taut, coiled seconds before striking.The roar faded to a dull hum in my ears, replaced by the rhythmic slap of fists striking flesh.My whole body tensed at the brutal dance before me.
The cameras captured every bruise, every splatter of blood, every calculated strike, magnified for the hungry audience.It was raw poetry in violence, each punch and block a cruel choreography.