Page 35 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Let them come. I won’t be torn down by any man or woman.

If the monster inside me hasn’t killed my spirit yet, hasn’t corrupted me entirely, then what could mere mortals possibly do?

I’ve lived with enough evil inside me to last a million lifetimes.

Men made of bone and flesh don’t scare me.

The voice in my head does enough of that on its own.

I stare down at the mat, roll my shoulders back once, then twice, and then look up.

“Who’s first?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, a few men start scrambling toward the ring, like dogs chasing a thrown bone. The largest one beats the others to it, climbing in with too much confidence and not nearly enough sense.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” a guy sneers as he approaches me, his smile all crooked teeth and misplaced pride.

I take him in and recognize him immediately. He’s one of the Fibonacci boys. The eldest, if memory serves.

“It’s Benny, right?”

“It’s Benito, freak. Remember the name ‘cause it’s about to knock you the fuck down.”

Hubris. Just like Gio warned. It’s the downfall of many made men. And tonight, it’ll be Benny’s.

I don’t need to look around to know we’ve drawn a crowd. Every time I step into this ring, they always gather around. They all watch with their breath held, wondering if tonight will be the night the dark prince finally gets his crown knocked clean off.

As I size Benny up, I already know it won’t be him. From the overgrown nails on his feet to the black, oily streaks in his hair, I can see he doesn’t have it in him.

I close my eyes and feel it begin—the crawl of something primal under my skin. The demon, sharpening its teeth. Anticipating the taste of blood.

I should feel sorry for Benny.

He doesn’t know who he’s really fighting. Because it’s not me. It’s it.

‘Enough games. Let me at him. I’ve waited long enough,’ the voice croons in my head, every syllable thick with bloodlust.

And just like that, I let go of the reins.

There’s a freedom in surrendering to the thing inside me.

A terrible kind of relief. It reminds me how exhausting it is to keep it caged.

To stay in control every second of every day.

But in here—in this ring—I can let it loose.

The weight falls from my chest like a boulder.

All that’s left to do is wait. Wait for Benny to strike first.

I always let them throw the first punch.

I’m not even sure why anymore. Maybe it’s my way of giving them one last scrap of dignity.

Or maybe it’s how I punish myself for letting the demon off its leash.

But the second Benny’s fist connects with my face, pain radiates through my skull like lightning, and I know it’s the only punch he’ll get.

What follows feels like a lucid dream. I don’t move.

Not yet. Instead, I let him think he’s done something with his first punch.

Let him taste the high before I take it away from him.

I can see his triumphant grin from the corner of my eye.

That stupid, crooked grin full of false victory. He has no idea what he’s started.

I turn my head back slowly, crack my neck to the left, then to the right. I feel the snap in my spine as the beast inside me stretches to life, hungry when Benny comes at me a second time.

It’s only then that I move. I duck low, fast—faster than he expects—and drive my shoulder into his gut.

The wind goes out of him in a sharp gasp, and I use the momentum to lift him off his feet and slam him against the ropes.

The sound of the impact echoes through the gym like a gunshot.

He tries to recover, throwing a wild hook.

I block it easily and step in close. Too close for him to breathe.

I jab him once to the ribs, to which Benny grunts, his body buckling just slightly. I follow it with a quick right to the side of his face, followed by another, and another. His temple snaps back after one ruthless punch below his chin, sweat flying from his hair like shrapnel.

When he makes the coward’s move to clinch, I shove him back, giving him space. Let him think I’m giving him a chance.

Once he’s caught his breath, Benny lunges again, aiming for my gut.

I evade him, grab his arm, and twist it.

He lets out a high, piercing wail, but I don’t let go.

I pull him toward me and slam my elbow into his nose.

Blood sprays after the sound of a sickening crunch.

He stumbles back, clutching his face, eyes wide.

“You done already?” I ask, voice low, taunting.

He snarls through the blood and rage, and charges at me like a bull. His rage is so blinding that it’s child’s play for me to sidestep away from him, causing him to crash into the corner post. Rookie mistake.

I move in before he can gather himself. A flurry of punches—two to the ribs, one to the gut, and an uppercut that lifts him off his feet for half a second before he crashes back down, knees buckling.

I circle him as he gasps for air, while one of his hands is dragging across the ropes to keep himself upright, and ask, “Still think you’re going to knock me the fuck down?”

Benny charges at me again, determined to keep intact whatever single shred of dignity he has left. He’s the best kind of fighter to defeat—desperate and drowning.

I catch his fist midair, twist his wrist until I hear it pop, then knee him hard in the stomach.

He folds like a lawn chair. I grab him by the back of the head and slam his face into my knee.

Once. Twice. Until I lose count. It’s only when he goes limp that I let him drop.

He hits the mat face-first, his arms splayed.

Blood drips from his nose and mouth, pooling beneath him.

Still, I wait. Sometimes they get back up. The ones that have more to prove, at least.

Benny twitches, groans, and tries to push himself up, but to no avail. I crouch beside him, grab a fistful of his sweat-soaked hair, and turn his face to mine. His eyes are swollen, barely open. His lips move, but no words come out. Only blood.

“Stay down,” I tell him. “You don’t want what happens next.”

Benny listens, his body sagging, defeated, broken. He is out for the count while the demon in me purrs, satisfied with how we’ve mangled his face.

I rise, wiping the blood from my knuckles on my shorts as two Fibonacci’s soldiers climb into the ring and drag Benny out like a carcass.

The silent crowd disperses instantly. No one else wants to follow in Benny’s footsteps tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight. Tonight’s show of force is enough to dismay them into trying. It’s almost as if they, too, could spot the difference between being me and it in the ring.

I don’t acknowledge any of them as I duck under the ropes and step out of the ring. Benny has served his purpose. He’s fed the beast. And now I can just be.

As my feet hit the gym floor, I feel those honey-brown eyes locked on mine. Izzie. Her brows are pulled tight in concern, as if she’s trying to understand why I do this to myself every night. As if she’s trying to read my every thought. And if she keeps staring like that… she just might.

Why is she looking at me like that? Like she cares?

The question still burns in my head when she tilts hers to me, a silent order for me to follow. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or just plain curiosity. Either way, I follow her into my grandfather’s office without a word.

“Sit,” she says, closing the door behind us and pulling down the blinds.

I settle on the edge of Nonno’s desk, watching her every move. It’s only when I see her rummage through the first aid kit that I finally speak.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she mutters as if that explains anything. She then sets the kit down beside me and flips it open. “Every night I see them helping whoever you pummel with your fists, but I never see anyone rush to help you.”

“That’s because I don’t need help.”

“Well, tonight you do. You’re bleeding.”

Am I?

And that’s when I feel it. Hot blood sliding down my brow like sweat.

Guess Benny’s one punch was enough to do damage.

“I’m fine,” I say, starting to rise.

But I freeze the second her hand lands on my bare chest. Warm. Gentle. Her palm anchors me like it belongs there.

“You’re not fine,” she murmurs, as if I were a stubborn child. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” I whisper, dropping my gaze from her face. It hurts to look at her sometimes, and I don’t know why.

“Well, that flesh wound’s going to get infected if no one handles it properly. Now just… stay still.”

I don’t know what her game is, but I do as she says. Maybe I’m too tired to argue. Or maybe I want her close. Even if only for a minute.

She steps between my legs and begins dabbing at my brow, her fingers steady, and her breath soft. The sting of antiseptic barely registers. Pain isn’t what does me in. It’s everything else that confounds me.

Her lips press together in frustration, unable to contain the blood. “Damn it,” she huffs. “We need to take you to a hospital.”

“No hospitals.”

“Can you stop being so damn macho for like two seconds? You need stitches.”

“I said no hospitals. There’s a stapler gun. Use that.”

She exhales sharply and digs through the first aid kit again. Sure enough, she finds the surgical skin stapler at the bottom, her brow lifting in dry surprise.

“Of course, Carmine would have stocked one of these. I bet this happens to you a lot.”

“On occasion.”

“Right.” She laughs, her genuine smile making an appearance.

I study her face, her mouth, her hands. Every part of her focused on tending to a man she shouldn’t care about.

A man she is currently trying to build a case against and throw behind bars.

But still, here she is, being kind to me.

Aside from my family, I can’t remember the last person who showed me any type of kindness. It’s… troubling.

I remain tight-lipped as Izzie continues to disinfect the wound with careful hands, then staples it shut with precision. One. Two. Three. Clean and efficient, as if she’d done it a million times before.

Perhaps she has. I’m sure she had to patch up more than a few fellow soldiers when she was in the army. I’m sure she’s seen worse than a busted eyebrow, too. I’ve watched her enough to know she can hold her own, but this is one of the few times I’ve seen a softer side of her—one that cares.

Once she’s satisfied, she places a small bandage over the wound, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she lifts my chin gently, making me look deep into those eyes—the same ones I’ve been trying so painstakingly hard to avoid.

“Why do you do it?” she asks.

“Do what?”

“That. This.” She lightly runs a finger over my brow. “Why do you fight them every night?”

Because it silences the voice in my head. Because if I don’t get my violence out in the ring, I might turn it loose on the wrong person. On someone I care about. On her.

I don’t say any of that and instead ask, “Why do you care?”

“Honestly?” she says, dropping her hand from my face. “I shouldn’t… care.”

It’s the first honest thing I’ve heard her say. Maybe the first truth she’s given me since we met.

With that truth hanging above us, we just stare at each other. I wish there was nothing but tenderness in our eyes and not this… torturous ache. My chest constricts under the weight of it…of her.

When she finally breaks the connection and starts to step back, my hands move on instinct. I grab her by the waist and hold her still. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t tell me to let go. Instead, she places her palms on my bare chest again, her shallow breathing now quickening.

“We can’t,” she whispers, voice raw, head bowed.

“Can’t what?”

“You know what.”

But it’s too late. When her eyes rise to meet mine again, molten gold swimming in them, I know she’s just as far gone as I am.

“Stop me, then,” I say.

And when she doesn’t move, doesn’t so much as speak, I lean in and crash my mouth against hers.