He tried to fight back, but only managed to cover his own head from the hits, trying to protect himself as best as he could from the fetal position he was in on the ground.
For one blissful moment, the hits stopped, and Valon made the mistake of dropping his arms, looking up at the boy looming over him. He saw the booted foot flying toward him, but he couldn’t stop it. More than that, he didn’t want to.
He welcomed the blackness that came after.
__
Seven hours of blissful unawareness, and then pinpricks of agony hit him, jarring him from his peaceful slumber. Valon couldn’t remember ever having felt such pain. The drunken hits from his father had been bad, and he still vividly remembered the bruises he’d suffered afterward, but that was nothing compared to what he felt now.
He was alive, though he couldn’t say he actually enjoyed this fact very much, back in the barn with the dogs. Not sure how he’d arrived here since he didn’t remember much about the night before besides being beaten to a bloody pulp in the Pit, he didn’t question it. Carefully, he rolled over onto his back, almost thankful for the coolness of the hay.
It was almost nice, laying there, feeling the pulses shoot through his body. They hurt and it was almost too painful to breathe, but for a reason unknown to him at the moment, he found comfort in that.
Valon wasn’t sure how long he was there before Gjarper came into the barn, looking every bit of the enforcer he was. In all the years that he’d called this place home, while he might not have known everything about the structure of The Organization, he had picked up a few things along the way.
Mostly about Gjarper since that was who he spent most of his time around. It hadn’t been easy—Gjarper didn’t willingly talk to anyone—but most of what Valon knew he’d caught in passing. Unlike Bastian, who had a top spot, Gjarper did most of the dirty work that others were too afraid to do; he went after people who owed The Organization money and refused to pay. And even without the title of Boss, Gjarper had managed to inspire fear in others when only his name was mentioned.
Valon could only imagine the things he’d had to do to inspire that kind of fear.
Gjarper didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Removing his shirt, he tossed it on the ground, and for the first time, Valon got a good look at the tiger emblazoned on his chest. It had incredible detail, from the snarling head to the way its claws looked like it was ripping through the skin of his chest.
“On your feet,” he said, his word lacking any real emotion.
Valon struggled to comply, wanting only to remain curled on the ground in his misery. The pain of his sore body made it nearly impossible to do anything more, but Gjarper refused to let him stay there. After last night, and the brutal way in which he’d been beaten, that had been enough to cool most of Bastian’s anger, but he was nowhere near satisfied. It seemed that, from this point forward, Valon would remain in the Pit, even if he ultimately died there.
But whether he lived or died, Gjarper wanted to give him a fighting chance, and that meant working through the agony he was in.
On weak arms, Valon pushed to his feet, his knees buckling slightly under his own weight. He might have thought the beatings he’d sustained from Ahmeti were harsh, but nothing compared to the brutality he’d suffered the night before.
Gjarper, who was still frowning, shook his head as he circled Valon, like he might have been looking for anything noteworthy about him. He could have saved him those few seconds. There was nothing to see.
“Make a fist.”
Unlike the rest of him, his hands were mostly damage-free since he had been unable to get a hit in. He did as instructed, holding one up, but Gjarper slapped it down, the sharp sting making him yelp in surprise.
“Don’t tuck your thumb unless you want to break it.”
Gjarper showed him the proper way to do it, the thick scars and calluses of his hand speaking to his own life of fighting. Valon mimicked what he saw, bracing for the pain of another hit in case he had managed to do this wrong as well, but when the hit didn’t come, he could only assume that he’d done right.
“Lesson one. The minute you enter that ring, you go in with the intent to kill.”
The words but I don’t want to kill anyone were on the tip of his tongue, but he gritted his teeth, keeping the words at bay. He knew how he must look to someone like Gjarper. He didn’t want to seem any weaker than he already was.
“Put it out of your mind,” he said fiercely, his gaze intent on Valon, as if he could read his thoughts. “If you don’t kill them, then they will kill you. You were spared last night only because Bastian called it before he could finish you off. Remember this.”
How easy it would have been to die last night…and there was nothing Valon could have done about it. He’d been so easily subdued that even those who hadn’t known the true reason behind why Bastian had ultimately forced him into the Pit, at least understood that he wasn’t put in there for his skill or lack thereof.
It was punishment, pure and simple.
“Lesson two,” Gjarper went on before Valon had a chance to respond. “Pain is the only friend you’ll have in this place.”
At the reminder, the pain flared up all over again, making its presence known. He couldn’t ever imagine that he would get used to this, but it was too soon to tell.
“Now, put your fists up and come at me with the intent to kill.”
Valon expected him to put his own fists up, to prepare himself for whatever Valon might do, but he only stood there, hands relaxed at his sides. There was no fear in him. He didn’t even seem to see Valon as a threat at all.
Waiting for a heartbeat, Valon sprang into action, thinking to catch Gjarper off guard and gain the upper hand. Before he could even swing his fist, Gjarper had him on the ground, that same look of disinterest on his face. At least he wasn’t enjoying it like the boy from last night.
“On your feet. Try again.”
This time, Valon didn’t hesitate, he just came up swinging, attacking what was closest to him. But each sporadic swing was blocked with quick efficiency to the point that Valon tired himself out.
Breathing heavily, Valon raised his hand out in front of him, silently asking for a moment to catch his breath, but Gjarper ignored this, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and dragging him to his feet.
Valon tried to ward off whatever hit would come next, but Gjarper was far bigger and stronger.
“Is this where you want to die, boy?” he asked, applying pressure to Valon’s neck, nearly cutting off his oxygen.
Shaking his head as best he could, Valon denied this though the idea of dying had crossed his mind before Gjarper had come in here. He didn’t realize how much he actually wanted to live until this very moment.
When the hold at his neck suddenly disappeared, Valon crumpled, wheezing as he dragged in air to breathe. Gjarper crouched down, waiting until Valon stopped choking and was looking up at him with watery eyes before he spoke.
“You’re weak, but born to Ahmeti and a whore, I expected no less.”
Whore. The word made his blood boil, and not for the first time, an all-consuming rage overwhelmed him. He lurched forward, not caring that he would be hit and there was nothing he could do about it, but he would not allow Gjarper, or anyone else, to disrespect his mother. Not anymore.
Gjarper shifted back just a fraction, just enough that he didn’t get hit, but he came back with a palm to Valon’s chest and a slap to his face. The hit wasn’t painful. It wasn’t done in retaliation, but more of trying to get his attention.
“That,” Gjarper said, poking him in the center of his chest with a meaty finger, “is what you need to survive in this place. To everyone in this place, you’re mother was a whore, you’re father was a drunk, and you are a product of the two. Accept it. Either stand up and learn to fight like a man or lay there and die. What do you choose?”
-
6
______
Pushing himself up
on shaking arms, Valon held himself there for a few seconds, counting under his breath as he dropped down then repeated the movement. He’d been working out for the better part of two hours, pushing himself further than he ever had before. Ever since he’d been thrown in the Pit, besides the residual pain that clung to him even days after the bouts, he had changed physically just as he had mentally.
He didn’t have to step on a scale to know he’d put on weight. The muscles in his chest and arms had grown, his shoulders broader, and if not from catching a brief glance at his reflection once while walking through the house, he would have known just from the way people did double takes.
Not used to his new size, he still stumbled when he walked, and it hadn’t helped him in the Pit yet. But he was finally ready to help himself, after Gjarper had knocked him down that last time, giving up on him before Valon had even realized that he’d given up on himself.
But with him reentering that ring tonight, he refused to just stand there and accept the abuse. No, tonight, even if he was still beat to a bloody pulp, he was fighting back.
It wasn’t for Gjarper, even though he hoped he’d be there.
Valon needed to do this for himself. He needed to prove that he wasn’t as weak as people thought he was.
No matter what this fight yielded, when he walked out of the Pit tonight, he wouldn’t be the same person he was when he walked in.
-
7
______
Soft whimpers carried over to Valon’s ears, and though he could barely muster the energy to open his eyes, the noise called to him and he couldn’t help but turn his head in that direction, blinking his eyes open.
He had grown accustomed to the dogs now that he was back in the kennels with them, and they had grown to accept him as well…as long as it wasn’t feeding time, then it was to each his own. Only once did he have to show one of them who was in charge, and that was because one of the men who was in charge of bringing Valon his food had thought it funny to toss it in with the dogs and make him fetch it.
They were fighting over a few steaks, but there were three, puppies in fact, who were trying to nose their way into the foray, hoping to partake of the food, only to be forced back as the bigger ones snapped at them and bared their teeth.
Valon’s first thought was to leave them to their fate, knowing they wouldn’t live long enough to see the ring of their own with the condition they were in. Even at his distance, he could see their ribs, stark against their fur. But something—the decent side of him—could not leave them to die this way.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Valon made his way over in that direction, boldly walking into the giant cage, not caring that he was back to being enemy number one while they were eating. Most of the men under Bastian’s charge were afraid to walk into the kennels, always having their guns at the ready with sticks to beat them with as well. Twice, Valon had seen two dogs put down just from fear of what these men had made them. He, on the other hand, didn’t mind their aggression, not anymore, and with his new life in the Pit, the pain of their bites barely fazed him.
Pain had finally grounded him. It made him more alert to his surroundings.
“Move,” Valon barked at them, giving a few a slight push when they wouldn’t move quick enough. Bushtër, a particularly vicious one, clamped down on his hand when it came too close to the bone she was gnawing on. He registered the feel of it, as Bushtër’s teeth broke his skin, but he only made a sound of frustration, using his free hand to grip her by the muzzle until she released him.
Finally, he made it to the back of the cage, crouching down in front of the three puppies. They were wary of him, scuttling back, though one was bolder than his companions were.
It came forward, small steps, its nose up as it sniffed the air, trying to scent him. It had ears that pointed straight up, a mixture of gray and white fur on its head, spreading down its back, with snow-white fur covering its belly.
Its eyes, though, were as pale as Valon’s. And just as sharp.
Valon took an instant liking to that one.
He could definitely see the Siberian husky in it, but he doubted it was purebred. It was far too big.
Not wanting to frighten it off, he waited a few moments before stretching out his hand, palm side up. He knew how best to act with them, and how he didn’t need to be violent to show his dominance. There was no need to force it to come, the moment his hand was out, the little hybrid came forward, nudging his hand with its nose.
The other two—both German Shepherds—though still wary, followed in its footsteps. Now he had three pups at his heels, all looking at him with tails wagging.
In the time it had taken him to enter the cage and get across it, the dogs were now done with their food, now looking for a way to take out their aggression. Not in the mood to play chew toy—despite his predilections—Valon scooped up the three pups, making his way back to his own sleeping place.
He deposited them onto the floor as he reached for his tattered book bag, scrounging through it for what little food he had hoarded over the last two weeks. There wasn’t much, but it was enough to start.
Smelling his offering, they nearly tripped over each other trying to get to him, and as they each took a bite of what he offered from his hand, Valon didn’t fight the smile forming.
This was the closest to happiness he had felt in a while.
____
“Nope, eyes on me.”
Valon stood tall, his hands outstretched, making sure that his new companions were watching his every move. Training them to follow his commands had been surprisingly easy in the last two weeks that he’d had them, but that might have just been because he had a lot of time on his hands.
When he wasn’t fighting, he was left to his own devices until Gjarper came to him for training. During those visits, he would hide the three of them away. There was no rule that he could not keep them, but Bastian was growing more frustrated with his lack of effort in the Pit, and his agitation was beginning to show. Valon didn’t want to risk anything happening to them should Bastian happen upon them.
No one had yet to learn his secret, and he hoped to keep it that way. He hoped that he’d train them long enough that by the time anyone noticed, they would be as big as the others.
Timber and Rusk, the two German Shepherds, had taken a while to catch on to Valon’s commands, but that was because the pair had a tendency to fight amongst each other whenever the mood struck, but they were fun, and often tried to bring Valon into their battles—which was mostly him on his back and them climbing over him.
Loki, aptly named after one of Valon’s favorite villains, was far easier to control, and since the moment Valon had started feeding and taking care of him, Valon found that he was far more affectionate than he looked. At night, when the sky was dark, and they lay in the dirt, Loki always rested his head on Valon’s thigh, never moving until the morning when they were all back again.
Valon didn’t mean to have a favorite—they were dogs, after all—but if he had to pick one who he loved a little more than the rest, it would be Loki. When Valon spoke, Loki listened and did as he was told with little hesitation.
Before he could continue his lesson for the day, Valon heard footsteps approaching, probably their first meal of the day. He snapped his fingers twice, almost smiling when the three moved toward the back of their little area, out of sight for the most part.
He stood, heading for the gate, intending to intercept Strom as he came through the barn doors, holding three bags worth of food, two of which belonged to Valon. Gjarper had talked Bastian into feeding him more. If only so he could put on more weight and have that help him in the Pit. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t working. He had managed to put on at least two stone, changing his boyish, lanky frame to something bigger. He was even performing better when he trained with Gjarper. That was the thing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight. It was that he didn’t want to.
He’d seen what blood sport had d
one to his father, and how it had warped him as a man. That fear plagued him constantly.
The last thing he wanted to turn into was Ahmeti.
When Strom crossed the threshold, grinning mischievously, Valon knew that this was not going to end well. Some people, such as Strom, liked to try their luck up until the very moment when it ran out. Valon had always held his tongue, refusing to speak out of turn for fear of what might happen, but he was tired of being afraid.
It was time he set an example, even if it were just a small one because, in the end, he still didn’t want to attract attention to himself.
“Looks like there’s good food,” Strom said shaking the bag, holding it out in front of him.
It was clear that he intended to throw it to the dogs and leave Valon to fend for himself, but faster than he could react, Valon grabbed the front of his shirt through a hole in the fence, dragging him across until he was flush against the metal. It only took a second, but a second was all he needed to see the one thing that he hadn’t ever seen a day in his life.
Fear.
Someone was actually afraid of him.
He hadn’t been sure why at first. It wasn’t like he was actively attacking the man, but it took him a moment to realize that Strom was struggling to get free. Yet Valon was holding him as easily as he held one of the dogs back.
This small taste of power made him smile, just the slightest curving of his lips, but when he did, Strom froze. Valon didn’t understand why this was, how his initial need to get free had morphed into this.
But he wasn’t going to argue the point, not when he could get what he wanted.
“Drop the bags.”
Strom did without question, and when Valon unclenched his fist, releasing the now wrinkled fabric of his shirt, Strom scurried back, nearly tripping over his feet to get out of there. He had seemingly forgotten his main objective of feeding the dogs in his haste to get back to the house, but having already brought more attention to himself than he’d intended, Valon watched him go, waiting until he was outside before he grabbed the first bag of food to disperse.
Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Book 0) Page 4