“Who’s the headliner?”
“Weapon.”
She raised an eyebrow. She’d never heard of the guy.
“He’s Dimi’s new pet. Only fights when he wants to and only fights title matches, which he wins. Then tosses the belt back to the loser.”
“Interesting.”
Browny rolled his eyes and smirked as if to say who does that? Well, clearly this guy. “Yeah. He’s in it for the fight, so I heard him say the one time”—Browny held up a single finger—“he actually spoke.”
“Strong silent type, huh?” she said.
“That description fits. And speak of the devil.”
She faced the cage and somehow managed to keep a straight face as the former Archangel of Weapons entered the arena. Son of a bitch.
The crowd made like the Red Sea and parted, not because something holy graced them with his presence. Bare-chested, Gadreel paced the length of the cage, completely ignoring the crowd chanting his name. And the women doing anything to gain his attention. She couldn’t blame the sluts. Not when he had an eight-pack worth drooling over, arms as big as her thighs, yet five times more defined. And his shoulders were a fucking I-beam. And don’t get her started on his back. Every muscle was defined under tan skin.
Then there was his face. From his heavy brow to his knifed cheeks, sublime arrogance stamped his features. He was beautiful, no denying it. And completely masculine, raw, undiluted. Addictive. Her body reacted, missing the little she had of him when she hadn’t any of him. Just annoying conversation of him pointing out her flaws. He could’ve saved that shit for someone else.
Except for the last time she’d seen him in the ring, which was weeks ago, Gadreel kept to the shadows. Even in her bedroom at the farm, he appeared more in the shadows than in the light. Seemed like this was the first time she got a really good look at him, and she drank him in. The fine tremor in his limbs was unusual. Supremely confident as were all the UnHallowed, what did he have to be nervous about?
His opponent entered the ring, a man equal in height and muscle mass. The crowd foamed at the mouth as the two were locked inside. A feral grin split Gadreel’s face.
Ah! Now she understood. Eagerness, not nerves, had him trembling.
It had to be difficult being fearful of any weapon touching your skin. That’s any man-made weapon created for the purpose of killing. That was his punishment for his fall from grace. A single, careless brush from a weapon on his bare skin and Gadreel would become a weapon, an unstoppable killing machine. The ultimate weapon.
Worried for him, she edged closer. So many things could go wrong, disastrously. That didn’t halt his need to enter the cage. She got it, boy did she get it. She had her own love-hate relationship with the cage. Now, that relationship was over.
The cage with its one unbreakable rule—your body is your weapon and nothing else—was the perfect outlet for all his buried aggression. For him, the rush was worth it. Without this outlet, Gadreel would either implode or explode. His power couldn’t be contained.
She should find Dimi and deal with their issues but couldn’t pull her attention away. Not when Gadreel allowed himself to be a punching bag. He didn’t even block the punches, instead, he stood there taking each punch as if he deserved it. She winced as he took a blow to the jaw. Why was he doing this?
She made her way closer to the cage, drawn to it, to him. As if watching a beating was the highlight of her night. If he saw her… She had no idea what he’d do and didn’t want to find out. There was a pocket of space she managed to squeeze into for a halfway decent view of the cage. Her phone read 3:00 AM. She’d come at the right time. One more fight and the show would wrap up in time for the first rays of sunlight. The fighters inside the cage went at it hard. Gadreel allowed himself to be a punching bag with a grin fixed to his face. He was enjoying himself.
She headed toward the rear cordoned off section of the hanger. Gadreel was more than capable of taking care of himself. She had to do the same. She spotted Tweedledum, one of Dimi’s bodyguards, and walked up to him. “Take me to him now or I walk.”
He raked her with a cold glare, then spoke into his mouthpiece. “Scarla’s here.” She couldn’t hear the reply that came through his earpiece as he nodded and stepped aside. “He’s in the office to your right.”
The hanger was huge, large enough to hold Dimi’s private jet in the rear. The same jet Amaya took to Vegas. Jealousy reared her head. Five years Scarla fought for Dimi and not once had she seen the inside of his jet. But Amaya shows up, pulls the half angel card, and replaces her. Bitter much? Yes. Damn it. Yes. Braile turned Amaya into a celestial conduit and stripped Scarla of her UnHallowed half. Stripped half of her away as punishment. Without her, everyone would be dead. She’s the fucking cavalry, and what’s her reward? She got turned into a pathetic human. But let’s not tell her. Let’s wait until she’s in the ring getting the shit beat out of her. Thanks, Braile, for nothing. Glad you’re dead because I’d find a way to kill you for this.
The office was a glass enclosure with a clear view of the entire hanger. Dimi sat at a desk. Two of his associates, one on a laptop, the other counting the money, sat on the other side of the room. One bodyguard stood watch inside.
Tweedledee guarded outside the office door. His lips curled in a mock grin. She’d broken his wrist the first time they’d met. Mr. Touchy had grabbed her ass without permission and had to pay the price. He gave her a wide berth ever since, plenty of “Yes, ma’ams and no, ma’ams.”
His gaze coasted down her body, taking her all in like she was a steak and he was a lion. That disrespected more than irritated her. The only reason he did it was because now, he could. He’d had a ringside seat to her defeat.
She stopped in front of him. “Dimi is expecting me.”
“Took a tumble from your high horse, huh.”
She gritted her teeth and surprise! She didn’t rise to the bait.
“Still bruised, I see.” He pointed to her jaw. “Foundation missed a spot. Where are the rest. Show me. I wanna see them.”
“Enjoy the moment, asshole. It’s one bruise. It will be gone in a week while you’ll still be a bootlicking asswipe.”
His lip curled and the snarl on his face made him uglier. “You’re not so pretty anymore.”
She scoffed and slapped the side of his cheek with a gentle tap. “Dude, bruises heal. And get it straight, I’m fucking gorgeous. I could be black and blue, and that two-inch worm dangling between your legs would still get hard.”
His face turned beet red. She took a stroll down his body and yeah, there was a bulge. Likely from the thought of her beaten and helpless. The pig.
His earpiece squawked. He flinched, stiffened as if a Hot Pocket was rammed up his ass, and opened the door for her.
With a smirk at his ass chewing, she sauntered past him and entered the office. He followed behind her. Her smile didn’t last pass the threshold. Dimi sat at a metal desk situated on one side of the room so that he had a view of everyone who approached. He gave her a head to toe once over that made her want a bath. He hadn’t looked at her like that since the first day she walked into a different office and told him she wanted to fight. He’d laughed, called her a baby, sweet, which turned to bitch and cunt when she made his two men eat tile.
But he gave her what she wanted. He put her in the cage.
He glared at one of his men and tipped his head at the windows. One of his bodyguards took the hint and closed the blinds. Dimi waited until the outside world was shielded from their meeting, then he pointed at her. “You think you fooled anyone with the hair? You can’t hide from me.
Huh? Dimi liked to hear himself talk. “Wasn’t trying to. That’s why I’m here.”
“You come to pay the butcher’s bill, my rebel?” The chair squeaked under his weight as he leaned back and clasped his hands on his large, round abdomen.
The analogy was wrong because the only one who came out bloody was her. Correcting him wouldn’t ge
t her brownie points, so she let it slide. “Absolutely. How much do I owe?”
His brow lowered in surprise. “Two hundred thousand.”
Shit. That was a lot of money. “All right. I’ll get it and be back in two nights. You have my word.”
He laughed, cackled really, and slapped the table while his bean counters kept counting. “That’s what you owe, that’s not what I want.”
Fuck. “I’m here to settle up, Dimi. You lost two hundred thousand. I pay and we’re even.”
He leaned forward, a gleam in his pitted, beady eyes. “You have two hundred thousand lying around, huh?”
She didn’t, but Rimmon did. He had a lot more than two hundred K. Her neutral stare gave Dimi her answer.
He folded his hands on the blotter, a sign a lecture would be delivered. “My rebel, I don’t want your money. I want your body.”
I bet you do. She kept her focus on Dimi and not his minions. “You think because I owe you, I’m going to spread my legs for you? You will take the money, or you will get nothing. I’m not going to be your whore.”
He laughed again. “You think I want that hole you have between your legs?” He tsked and shook his head. “I want you back in the ring. Two more fights. The first one you’ll win, reclaim your title since Androgina is dead. The second one you won’t. I’ll make a lot more than two hundred K.”
Always an angle. “No. I’m done with the cage.”
“The cage isn’t done with you.” He dismissed her with a wave of his fat hand. “I’ll call you with the first date.”
“No means no, Dimi.”
His brow lowered over his pitted eyes and a florid patch spread over his cheeks. “You’re not invincible anymore, so you don’t tell me no.”
She backed up. He closed in around her, grinning, not intimidated at all. Dimi signaled for his accountants to leave. The bean counters scurried out of the room.
Her attention locked on Tweedledee. He feinted left, then dodged to his right as if she were some dumb chick who planned on screaming and running for help. Not today. Make that not ever.
She struck fast, a one-two punch to his mouth and nose. Blood sprayed all over her shirt. He grunted and slapped a hand over the mess. She punted his balls and watched him collapse. There wasn’t time to enjoy the spectacle because the other bodyguard leapt over his associate and caught her with a kick that sent her flying across one of the accountant’s desks. Stacks of money would’ve cushioned her fall if it weren’t for the laptop and printer she careened into. The metal bit into her ribs, hip, and knee. She ended up slamming into the wall, denting the drywall. She bounced off and landed, tangled in chairs.
Get up! She pushed at the chairs, the bodyguard was already leaning over the table, surprised she wasn’t unconscious. But she was damn close. The kick scrambled her brain. Another blow like that and she wouldn’t be upright for a while, if ever again.
Vision blurry, she tried to focus on his face…but got stuck on the gun taped to the underside of the table.
She had a split second to wonder if the accountants put it there as a contingency and left it—by accident of course—for her, or one of the bodyguards. Either way, Thank you very much!
Noting the silencer screwed onto the nozzle, Scarla gripped the butt and gently touched the trigger. It had been a while since she held a gun. When one considered themselves a weapon, one didn’t need a gun.
“Nowhere to go, bitch.” He clamped onto the top of her head and grabbed a fist full of hair.
Scarla pulled the trigger, then yanked the gun free. Screaming, he flopped to the tile, blood seeping between his fingers pressed to his thigh. Tweedledee fumbled with his jacket to get his gun out. She brought her weapon around, aimed, and fired. The bullet went through his shoulder, flinging him backward.
A bullet grazed her arm, leaving a burn in its wake. Instinct took over. Dropping to one knee, she spun and fired. A bright red bloom spread in the center of Dimi’s chest as shock spread across his face. His mouth dropped opened and a gurgling sound escaped instead of words. His gun slipped from his hand and he clutched his chest. A trail of bloody spittle ran from his mouth. Pain twisted his pale, fat face. So pale the blue spiderweb veins showed in stark relief under his normally florid face.
Her hand trembled, but she didn’t lower the gun as she claimed her footing.
“Die… Die…” he choked out between gasps.
“Yes. You’re gonna die.”
“Not me… You. Walking Dead. For this.”
Oh. She got it. Dimi wasn’t The Boss. He was an underlying, answering to someone as his bodyguards once answered to him. This knowledge wasn’t new and it was too late to care. She’d handle them like she handled everything else.
“That may be, but at least I’m walking. You, my ex-friend, aren’t walking anywhere, ever again.”
He struggled to get another word out, but she turned away. Dimi wasn’t going anywhere. She took the time to kick the bodyguards’ weapons away. Only then did she approach Dimi who slumped lower in his chair, the light leaving his eyes slowly.
She should feel something. Guilt. Fear. Panic. None of those emotions touched her. Purpose filled her. For what, she wasn’t sure. Correction. She knew one damn thing as Dimi’s body cooled. She wasn’t a victim before she lost her power in Siberia, and she damn sure wasn’t a victim now. “You should’ve taken the money.”
“You’re a dead bitch,” Tweedledee gritted between clenched teeth. Blood seeped between his fingers.
She pivoted and faced him with her weapon lowered. “Funny. I’ve never felt more alive.” He opened his mouth and she silenced it with her boot buried to his tonsils. “I’m not afraid. Never have been. Won’t start now. Heal up and come at me if you’re man enough. ‘Cause I’m ready.”
A boot to the temple and it was lights out for both bodyguards. Scarla snatched up the guns and exited the room without a care in the world. The crowd was screaming. Gadreel must be putting on a show. Too bad she couldn’t stay and watch.
~~~~~
Screams, not the roar of the crowd, filtered through the numbing haze Gadreel surrounded himself with inside the cage. The laser focus he’d trained on his opponent to ensure the human’s safety, faltered as his attention shifted to the stampeding humans. What had caused men in suits and women in six-inch heels to run?
Distracted, his opponent got a lucky punch to Gadreel’s ribs. He grabbed the human by the throat, slammed him to the ground. Several bones snapped, the muffled sound reminiscent of hail striking the earth. He snatched him up and had him hovering four feet into the air—by the throat. His skin color shifted from white, to bright red, to blue.
At present, the screams came from inside Gadreel’s head, the shrieks of his personal monster, his alter ego, leashed for his and the public’s safety. Only inside the cage did he give it a sliver of freedom because outside the cage, if his monster ever broke free, no one would be safe. And right now, that leash was frayed.
He released the human and was striding from the cage before he landed. He paused at the threshold. Too many people. Too many chances for them to touch him. Too many chances for disaster to happen. With a flex of his power, he could cut the lights, and add fuel to the stampede. Humans would die. The new grace in his body curdled at the thought.
Curse you, Braile.
It didn’t take long for the crowd to dwindle, clearing a path to the rear of the building and what they were running from—Dimitri’s bodyguards by the office, at their feet, two of their men bleeding out. The ones who guarded Dimitri, which begged the question, where was Dimitri? The guards had guns out. He couldn’t risk strolling over and one of them pointing a weapon at him. Heaven forbid, getting trigger happy and touching him with one, or worse…shooting him. Deep inside, his monster salivated.
Gadreel killed the lights but left the yellow emergency lights on. As they panicked, he let the shadows cloak him, clothe him in his leathers, and take him inside the office. The dark kept no secrets
from an UnHallowed. In minute detail, he observed Dimitri’s body, and the blood at opposite ends of the small room, took in the stench of Dimitri’s decaying flesh and the coppery scent of drying blood. Someone had made a statement and taken out the Russian boss.
Disappointment knifed through him. The fights would resume, but it would be a while before someone would step up and claim Dimitri’s throne. Gadreel called the shadows to him, prepared to leave, when another scent froze him in his tracks. A scent almost as familiar as his own.
Three strides and his foot stopped next to a single droplet of blood. He dropped to his haunches, extended a finger, and smeared it. He had no doubt, but that didn’t stop him from bringing the sample to his nostril and inhaling deeply.
“Fuck!” he growled low and surged to his feet. This time he killed all the lights and marched from the room. “Silence,” he shouted, and every wagging tongue ceased. For a bunch of armed men, they were certainly pussies about a bit of dark. “Drop the guns and move away.”
Their weapons clattered to the concrete floor and feet shuffled in the opposite direction. Carefully, he stepped between the weapons to crouch beside the wounded men. “Who did this to you?” he demanded, his attention split between the two.
“Divinity,” one murmured, while the other groaned, “Scarla. Scarla Weston.”
He fisted the nearest one’s throat and brought him close. “Why? Why did she shoot you? What did you do to her?”
“She owed Dimi money. He wanted more. Wanted her back in the ring. She said no. Shit skied downhill from there,” he groaned.
Gadreel’s grip tightened on the bodyguard’s throat. “Forget Scarla was here. In fact, forget you ever knew Scarla Weston.” He assessed all the men, their conditions, and then flexed his power. “None of you remember anyone named Scarla Weston.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“We’re here, Mom,” Sophie said, parking the rental. An easy sigh of relief escaped her, and she slumped into the seat. The tension she’d carried for the last eighteen hours ebbed. They’d made it. Ellen continued to snore in the passenger seat. Sophie couldn’t blame her. It had been a long journey from Key West to Detroit. The five-hour drive to Miami, then waiting for a flight to Detroit, couldn’t get a direct flight, so they had to take two connecting flights. An exhausting nightmare, and not once had her mother complained.
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