Page 38 of The Night Movers: Season One

“Like I’m the queen of the underworld?” Ridley murmured, echoing Linus’s earlier words.

“That works,” Sugar said.

Ridley straightened his spine, blew out a breath, and put his game face on. He could do this. He had to do this. Blood rushed in his ears, his mouth so dry his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He could do this. He could do this. He was safe.

It was only when they were almost at the bottom of the long staircase that Ridley spotted them: two figures cloaked in darkness, their clothing as inky black as the night itself.

He squinted, trying to make out their faces, but it was no use.

They were wearing hoods. Not hoodies, like the alphas surrounding him wore, but actual black hoods, like executioners from medieval times.

They were alphas. He could smell it on them.

Why could he smell it on them? No scent blockers?

Most people wore scent blockers when out in public.

It was only then Ridley realized he could smell the pack as well.

He’d grown so used to their scent that it had never occurred to him to question why it surrounded him still.

But why wouldn’t they wear scent blockers?

Was it a rebellion thing? An intimidation thing?

Did multiple scents overwhelm their opponents?

Give some kind of an advantage when fighting?

Ridley had taken Diesel’s talk of street fighting in stride but hadn’t put much thought into what that meant.

To be fair, he was in the throes of his heat, but now, he wished he’d asked some questions.

Like, if this was street fighting…where was the street?

Other than the road they’d taken to get there, Ridley could see no street.

And now, they were back underground. Again.

In an underground city that the rest of the world didn’t even know existed.

Maybe they didn’t want to know. As a kid, he’d heard other children tell tales about a city underground, of a criminal underworld, but it had sounded like something out of a comic book, so he’d quickly dismissed it.

Yet, there he was, dressed like a character out of said comic book, about to deliberately antagonize a group of murderous alphas…for the greater good.

Sure. Why not?

Despite the heavy black doors before them, nobody slowed as they approached, like they expected to march straight through two solid steel doors. Maybe they only looked solid. Ridley shook his head. That made no sense. But neither did Titus barking, “Holland,” at the two men as he approached.

Upon hearing the word, the two hooded alphas reached for the door handles, swinging them wide.

As they passed through, the two alphas bowed—literally bowed—at them.

An icy finger of fear slid along Ridley’s spine.

He’d never seen alphas bow to other alphas before. Not without a crown and title involved.

King of the Underworld.

That was what Linus had called Titus. He’d assumed it was a joke, but once inside, he realized just how wrong he’d been. He wanted to slow down, to look, to at least turn his head and scan his surroundings, but he didn’t dare. Titus had told him to keep his eyes forward.

All around them, people laughed and talked, but Ridley couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t read their motives, couldn’t see the threat before it happened. It was unnerving. But not as unnerving as all that chatter dying the moment the heavy doors slammed shut behind them.

Ridley could see fluorescent lights hidden behind opaque ceiling panels and cream-colored walls that had probably once been white.

Two doors loomed before them. Someone had spray painted the words “The Arena” onto the wall in black and red, the same red as the doors ahead.

It looked very much like the artwork on Sugar’s walls. Had he painted it?

Somewhere in the large space, music played, but it was muted, only some notes and words hitting Ridley’s ears, amplifying his disquiet.

The need to look was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, growing and growing until it was the only thought in his head.

He needed to look, to know, to see who these people were.

Why were they there? Were they alphas? Omegas?

If so, why wasn’t he choking on the scents?

Did some people need scent blockers and not others?

He bet Diesel would tell him the truth. But there was no time.

The pack walked in lockstep around him; if he so much as misstepped, they’d all collide into him, causing an embarrassing public scene and Ridley was the only one not wearing a mask.

Before he knew it, the red doors were upon him. Why had the crowd all gone silent?

What was happening?

Ridley didn’t turn his head, but from the corner of his eye he saw it. Saw them . His blood ran cold. Just like the alphas outside, every person in the room appeared to have their heads down. Bowing. Was it out of respect or fear? Ridley suspected the latter.

Titus didn’t strike Ridley as a benevolent king. What would happen when they realized their new king had a queen? An omega queen? Would they rebel? Try to overthrow the pack? Did they already know?

As they approached the doors, two girls clad in barely-there dresses ran to grab the handles, swinging the doors wide just as the two alphas had. They kept their heads down but Ridley could see they were almost…giddy. Why? Be cause they’d opened Titus’s doors?

Ridley’s mood soured as he took in each of the girls.

They were pretty, he supposed, but definitely not Titus’s type.

He was Titus’s type. And his mate. His only mate.

As they passed, Ridley couldn’t help himself.

He gave the two girls a dismissive look, then placed a hand on Titus’s shoulder.

Both girls’ eyes went wide as they looked at them, then at each other.

Too bad, skanks.

Once inside, Titus stopped abruptly, just at the edge of the entrance.

Ridley almost ran straight into his back.

Diesel’s arm snaked around his waist, keeping him from disaster.

Ridley beamed at him. Diesel was so good to him.

When it was clear Titus had no intention of moving, the pack spread out to stand side by side, looking down into the arena below. Ridley couldn’t help but do the same.

The entire room was made of concrete, distorting every sound, then amplifying it. Just ahead was the first step leading down into the pit-like ring. Everything was cold, hard concrete. There were no seats, just concrete stairs that curved around the entire ring, serving as bleachers.

There, at the bottom of the steep risers was a ten-foot-tall, five-sided cage, fully encased in barbed wire.

If anyone was shoved against that wire, they’d be shredded.

But safety clearly wasn’t their biggest concern.

There was no padding on the ground, nothing to cushion a blow should one fall.

Just red paint rolled over the unforgiving concrete surface.

Was it to hide the blood?

The room was warm, the air damp, heavy with sweat and alpha pheromones.

Like the previous room, the doors slamming shut, echoing through the space, had all eyes on them.

Ridley’s heart jackrabbited around his chest, crushing his lungs.

Could they smell his fear? He did his best to keep his expression neutral but he had no idea what his face was actually doing.

Most of the risers were empty, except for the ones closest to the cage. It seemed the small crowd had split into four factions, keeping to themselves, though, now, they all watched them—watched Ridley—with curiosity.

Sugar pointed to a group of men on the far side of the arena. “That’s The Scavengers. They came together after their other packs booted them out for their crimes. Like most scumbags do, they found each other and formed a new pack. Most of them don’t like each other, but that hardly matters.”

Ridley took in the rag-tag group of men. There was nothing at all that indicated these men were a pack, no unity at all. No sense of family. They stood together, but still alone. “What do you mean?”

“Everything is safer in a pack,” Steele said. “Even committing crimes. They traffic omegas, mostly overseas.”

“Overseas?” Ridley parroted.

Steele sighed. “Babies. They’re runners for the breeding farms. They transport the babies to their new owners—wealthy beta couples, both foreign and domestic—most of whom are in Europe and Asia.”

“Jesus,” Ridley muttered, disgusted, his eyes landing on another group. “And them?”

A large group of black men lounged around on the first four risers, some sitting, some lying on their backs, all staring up at Ridley.

While the other packs looked at Ridley with a palpable hostility, there was a quiet menace to this bunch.

Maybe it was the laziness of their gazes, the way they roamed Ridley at their leisure, like panthers who’d already gorged themselves and were too tired for dessert.

“The Last Sons,” Sugar said.

Ridley shivered. He knew of them. They were famous. Their pack spanned multiple territories, held thousands of members. Their initiation rituals had left some potential members dead.

“They have their hands in everything from gun running to designer drugs, with a little pimping on the side,” Steele said. “Real go-getters.”

Before Ridley could ask, Ryker pointed to a group of men who sat to the right of The Last Sons, but far enough away that nobody would mistake them as friends.

“Those are the Kage ōkami. Third generation Yakuza. Mostly arms dealers, but they dabble in other things like porn and collecting money from unwilling debtors. All you need to know about them is that they’re violent, mouthy, and smart.

” Ryker stared at someone in the group, giving them a disgusted look. “Well, most of them are smart.”