Page 42 of Omega's Fever

What’s he thinking about out there? The case? The match? How to get rid of the criminal taking up space in his perfect apartment?

He’s avoiding coming back inside. He’s avoiding me. Smart omega.

I sink into the armchair I’ve positioned for the best sightline and settle in to watch him. It’s probably creepy, but I can’t helpmyself. In prison, you learn to pay attention to every detail of things that matter. And hell, does he matter.

He’s mine, sitting out there in the cold when he should be here where I can protect him, touch him, scent him properly. My hands clench against the chair arms.

The first time I stepped into The Pit, I was seventeen and hungry.

I’d been fired that morning from a warehouse job. Third one in two months. The supervisor didn’t like how the other workers looked at me, said I made people nervous just by existing. It didn’t matter that I never started trouble. Even that young, I was huge and scarred.

That night I was drinking cheap beer simply because no one in the Pit bothered to ask for ID, when the fight broke out. Three guys cornering some kid. He was a university type, probably wandered into the wrong neighborhood. They had him backed against the pool table, taking turns shoving him, laughing when he stumbled.

I didn’t think about it. Never do when I fight. One second I was nursing my beer, the next I had the biggest guy in a chokehold while his buddies tried to figure out what hit them. It took maybe ninety seconds to put all three on the floor.

The kid ran. He didn’t even say thanks. That was smart of him.

That’s when Cobb appeared, materializing from the smoke like the devil himself, his smile like a shark scenting blood.

“You fight like that for free?” he’d asked. “You could make real money doing it for an audience.”

“What kind of money?”

“Five hundred for a win. Two hundred just for showing up.” He’d blown smoke toward the ceiling, watching me through the haze. “More if you put on a good show.”

I should have known but when you’re desperate, you see whatyou need to see. And I was fucking desperate.

“When?”

“Tonight, if you want. Downstairs.”

Of course, I’d said yes.

The basement of The Pit stank of years of alpha pheromones, spilled beer and blood. The walls were concrete and painted black to hide the stains. The ring was rope and construction stakes. It was nothing fancy, but it didn’t need to be. The crowd came for the violence, not the decor.

There were maybe fifty people clustered around the ring that first night. Men mostly, but some women too. All of them with that hungry look people get when they’re about to watch something brutal. Money changed hands faster than I could track, bills folded and passed with practiced ease.

“Fresh meat,” someone called out when Cobb led me through the crowd.

“Hayes here thinks he can fight. Time to prove it, “Cobb had said.

My opponent was already in the ring. He was a good looking guy, heavily muscled. He bounced on his toes, loose and ready.

“Rules are simple,” Cobb explained, voice pitched to carry over the crowd noise. “No biting, no eye gouging, no groin shots. Everything else is fair game. Fight ends when someone can’t continue or taps out. Winner takes the purse.”

No gloves. No rounds. No referee except Cobb, who clearly didn’t give a shit if we killed each other as long as the crowd got their show.

The guy came at me fast, leading with a jab that would have broken my nose if it connected. But I’d started fighting bigger kids when I was eleven. I’d already learned to read how they moved, and this guy might as well have sent a formal announcement.

I slipped the punch and drove my knee into his ribs, feelingsomething give under the impact.

He wheezed but didn’t go down. Tough bastard. His elbow caught me in the temple on the backswing, making stars explode across my vision. The crowd roared approval.

We traded shots for six minutes. He had decent technique. But technique doesn’t mean shit when you’re fighting someone who learned to fight to survive, not to win trophies.

I left him unconscious on the concrete, blood from his broken nose pooling under his head. The crowd went wild. Money changed hands again, bills flying like confetti. And Cobb counted out five hundred dollars in twenties, pressing them into my hand with that shark smile.

“Natural talent,” he’d said. “Stick with me, kid. We’ll make something of you.”