Page 54

NINETEEN

BLOOD AND BONE

~RIOT~

The first feral Alpha comes at me like a hurricane of teeth and claws, foam spraying from his mouth as whatever cocktail of chemicals they've pumped into his system reaches peak efficiency.

His eyes roll wild in his skull—pupils blown so wide only thin rings of color remain visible around the edges.

I don't think. Can't think.

The rage consuming every rational thought burns too hot for strategy or a calculated response. There's only the primal imperative screaming through my bloodstream: protect what's mine, destroy what threatens, survive until she's safe.

My fist connects with his jaw hard enough to shatter bone, the wet crack echoing through the arena like breaking timber.

His head snaps back at an impossible angle, vertebrae grinding against each other with sounds that would make normal people vomit. But he doesn't go down— whatever they've done to him has turned off pain receptors and cranked aggression beyond human limitations.

Blood sprays from his ruined mouth as he lunges again, massive hands reaching for my throat with fingers bent into claws. I duck under his grasp, driving my elbow up into his solar plexus with enough force to crater his ribcage.

The impact drives air from his lungs in a whistling gasp, but he still doesn't fall.

Two more circle behind me while another pair flanks from the sides—pack hunting tactics despite their feral state, some vestige of alpha intelligence surviving beneath chemical-induced madness.

The coordination would be impressive if it weren't so fucking terrifying.

My nostrils flare desperately, seeking that precious scent that's become my lifeline in this nightmare.

Cardamom and cinnamon, exotic fruits and rain-soaked earth—her fragrance cuts through the stench of unwashed bodies and spilled blood like a beacon in hell's darkness.

Still there, still real, still mine despite the institutional theft that tore her from our bonded sanctuary.

The second attacker moves faster than should be possible, enhanced reflexes operating beyond normal human parameters.

His shoulder catches me in the ribs, driving us both to the concrete floor in a tangle of limbs and violence. We roll across blood-slick surfaces, each trying to gain dominant position while avoiding the snapping teeth that promise infection or worse.

His weight pins me momentarily—two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and rage focused on tearing out my throat.

Saliva drips from his bared fangs onto my face, carrying the stench of decay and chemical enhancement.

Up close, I can see what institutional conditioning has done to him— scars from repeated surgeries, track marks from constant injection, the glassy sheen of sanity permanently fractured through systematic abuse.

This could have been me.

Would have been me if I'd lasted much longer in their tender care.

The thought ignites fresh fury that transcends physical limitation. My knee drives up between his legs with surgical precision, enhanced alpha anatomy providing target that remains vulnerable despite chemical dulling of pain response.

His howl of agony gives me the opening I need.

I roll him off and surge to my feet just as the third attacker reaches striking distance.

This one carries improvised weapons—sharpened metal torn from institutional fixtures, crude but effective in hands trained for violence.

He swings the jagged implement in wide arcs designed to open arteries and scatter blood across arena walls.

Muscle memory guides my response without conscious direction. Duck the first swing, step inside his guard, drive my palm up into his nose with enough force to send bone fragments into his brain.

The wet crunch of cartilage separating from skull provides grim satisfaction as he drops like a felled tree.

But there's no time to savor victory.

Numbers four and five coordinate their assault with tactical precision that speaks to military training buried beneath pharmaceutical conditioning. They move as a unit— one high, one low —forcing me to defend multiple attack vectors simultaneously.

The high attacker's fist whistles past my ear as I drop into a defensive crouch, feeling displaced air ruffle my hair. His follow-up comes as a knee strike aimed at my temple, technique textbook perfect despite the foam dripping from his mouth and the madness burning in his eyes.

I catch his leg mid-strike, using his momentum to spin him into his partner's path. They collide with the bone-jarring impact that sends both staggering, giving me precious seconds to position for a counterattack.

My elbow finds the first one's temple as he tries to recover balance. The blow drops him immediately— lights out, nervous system shutting down to protect damaged brain tissue from further trauma.

One threat eliminated, but his partner recovers faster than anticipated.

Massive hands lock around my throat from behind, cutting off air with crushing pressure that makes spots dance across my vision. Enhanced alpha strength multiplied by chemical enhancement proves almost impossible to break through conventional means.

His grip tightens with mechanical precision, each second of oxygen deprivation bringing unconsciousness closer.

But consciousness isn't what drives me now.

Pure animal instinct takes control as my vision begins tunneling toward black. I drive my head back into his face with desperate force, feeling his nose explode in a spray of blood and cartilage.

The grip loosens momentarily—enough for me to twist in his grasp and drive my fingers into his throat.

Not a punch but surgical application of pressure to specific nerve clusters. His larynx collapses under my grip, air whistling through damaged passages as he claws frantically at hands that might as well be steel cables.

I hold the pressure until his eyes roll back and his body goes limp, then drop his unconscious form to join the growing pile of defeated opponents.

Five down.

Arena floor slick with blood and other fluids I don't want to identify. My own breathing comes in ragged gasps as adrenaline begins its inevitable crash, leaving me shaking with reaction and exhaustion.

But her scent still drifts from above like salvation itself.

Still there, still real, still the only thing that matters in this institutional hell designed to break both body and spirit through systematic application of violence and despair.

I look up through the haze of exhaustion and bloodlust, vision swimming as the world tilts on its axis. There she is—suspended like some twisted angel above the carnage, her limp form swaying gently in whatever mechanism holds her captive.

The medical patch still adheres to her neck, that small square of institutional cruelty keeping her unconscious while they force me to perform in their gladiatorial theater.

Unconscious but breathing, vulnerable but alive— the most precious sight in any universe, despite the circumstances surrounding our reunion.

My chest heaves as oxygen debt demands payment for extended combat beyond normal human endurance.

Sweat and blood drip from my face to join the expanding pool beneath my feet, each drop marking another second of survival in odds stacked impossibly against success.

But I'm still standing…breathing…still capable of protecting what's mine despite whatever fresh horror Press has orchestrated for our torment.

I don't care if this takes hours.

Don't care if they send twenty more waves of enhanced killers to test my resolve. If I have to paint these walls with blood until the entire facility runs red with institutional consequences, so be it.

They gave me a taste of perfect connection— bonding with my omega in that steamed sanctuary where reality simplified to just two bodies and one magnificent truth.

Let them try to take that away through mechanical precision and chemical manipulation. Force them to discover what happens when you steal from someone who has nothing left to lose and everything precious to reclaim.

The vow forms with crystalline clarity despite exhaustion clouding rational thought: we will get out of here.

We will escape this madness and find the others— Sable with his judicial precision, Corvus with his omniscient perception, Ash with his sacrificial devotion.

Our pack scattered through institutional levels, but not broken, not eliminated, waiting for the reunion that will make every moment of suffering worthwhile.

They're alive.

I have to believe they're alive, enduring their own prisons of agony while counting seconds until we rise from this Parazodiac nightmare like phoenixes from carefully tended flames.

The belief sustains me as exhaustion threatens to drag consciousness toward blessed oblivion.

Keeps me upright when logic suggests surrender might offer an easier path through whatever trials await. Provides orientation when the institutional maze becomes too complex for simple navigation or tactical planning.

A bell chimes through arena speakers with crystalline clarity that cuts through combat-induced deafness.

Electronic harmony marking transition between phases, announcing a fresh challenge designed to test limits I thought I'd already exceeded through desperate application of enhanced capability and primal determination.

Gates around the arena perimeter begin rising with mechanical precision, revealing shadowed alcoves that have remained sealed throughout previous combat.

New scents drift from these openings—different chemical signatures suggesting varied pharmaceutical enhancement protocols, diverse conditioning methodologies applied to create specialized threats rather than uniform opposition.

Six this time.