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.
Chapter 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 ground 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 bloodsport had done 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 happ
en, but he was tired of being afraid.
It was time he set an example, even if it was 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.
Despite working with Gjarper and the practice he did on his own, Valon still wasn’t winning in the Pit. Bastian seemed pleased in the beginning that he was getting the shit beat out of him every night, but now, he only seemed to grow more annoyed.
It was only a week and a half later, after Valon had lost yet another fight. He was recovering in the kennels, his new companions resting next to him. It wasn’t common for anyone to come down to where he stayed and never in the middle of the night.
And Bastian was definitely never in attendance.
Valon had counted on this, knowing that Bastian would never allow him to keep the three, if only because he didn’t want him to have anything that would make him remotely happy. There was a chance he might have let them stay, but he would have bred them to fight, instead of being coddled, and if they didn’t perform well, they would be put down.
“What is this?” Bastian spat out, looking from Valon to Loki and the others.
Valon did well to hide his surprise, sitting up. He ignored the pain, a feat he’d learned. Loki’s ears perked up as he went on alert, baring his teeth the closer they came. Volk and Timber didn’t seem to notice the danger he was in.
Gjarper stood off to the side, ever silent, ever watchful, but unlike the others, he didn’t look surprised to see the dogs, making Valon wonder if he had always known.
“You cost me money every time you enter the Pit and lie on your back. Now you’re costing me money by feeding your pets?” The rage in his face was clear, but more was the sadistic gleam in his eyes. “Grab them.”
“No!”
But the moment he was on his feet, ready to fight for them, two of Bastian’s guard grabbed him, holding him in place as the others grabbed the smaller dogs. Only, when one of them made to snatch Loki, he snapped back, crouching low as though prepared to attack. He had grown bigger than both Timber and Volk, and his size intimidated the men.
Bastian pulled a blade from his coat, wrenching Timber from the man’s hand, who struggled in his hold. Volk, however, seeming to realize what was happening, bit the man’s hand that was holding him. He scrambled to his feet, trying to run away, but the man brandished a small revolver, aiming it at him. Before Valon could even voice a protest, he shot Volk twice, dropping to the ground, blood already seeping from his fur.
“Wai—”
But it was too late. Bastian’s knife had already cut through Timber’s neck. He dropped him to the ground, uncaring that a line of blood was slowly seeping across the dirt toward Valon.
The anguish he felt at the sight of them wounded Valon in a way that he couldn’t describe. He had stopped caring about things since his nënë’s murder, but he had allowed these creatures to become a part of him. He learned what it was like to feel again. And now that two of them were gone, he felt that void opening up inside of him…one he was afraid to look into.
There was only Loki left and Valon couldn’t—wouldn’t watch him die.
“Whatever you want,” he said desperately. “You want me to win a fight, I’ll do it. Or anything.”
Only two people in that room knew exactly what Valon was truly offering, what those precious words meant. And while he had meant what he said, Valon didn’t dare look to Gjarper to see his reaction, knowing there would be shame there. But there was nothing more to offer a man who had everything he could possibly want…except for something he had previously tried to take.
The silence had stretched between them before Gjarper broke it. “If the boy fights tonight, and wins, then we stand to make a large profit if we bet on him.”
“Look at him,” one of the others sneered. “He can’t fight in this condition. They’d kill him in minutes.”
Valon didn’t respond to the criticism. To some, Loki might have meant nothing. But at this moment, Valon would give anything to save his only friend, even if it meant offering up a piece of himself.
Bastian considered the man’s words, studying Valon with dark eyes. “You fight. You win. If you lose, it dies, and I kill you myself.”
He waved the others away, and they followed behind him as they all left the barn. “Get him ready,” he called over his shoulder. “He fights within the hour.”
Only when they were out of sight and Gjarper was the only one left to see it did Valon wince, wrapping an arm around his middle as though that might help the pain he was in. After fighting for so long, he knew what certain injuries felt like, and he knew that tonight he would be fighting with sore ribs and a well-placed hit might actually break one of them.
But he had no choice.
He wasn’t just fighting for himself.
Loki crept forward, sniffing around his dead companions, whining as he nudged them, wanting them to get up again.
“I’m sorry.”
There was no need to apologize. It wasn’t as though Loki could understand him anyway, but Valon felt the need to do so because he was sorry.
Sorry he couldn’t help save them.
Sorry he couldn’t help save himself.
But maybe, and he was hoping, he would get them through the night.
“You need to prepare,” Gjarper said from his position by the doors.
But for the time being, Valon ignored him, going over to a corner in the back of the barn, getting down on his knees before digging his fingers into the dirt. The dirt was hard already, made even harder due to the elements, but Valon didn’t stop his process as he dug the first hole, shredding his fingers in the process. When he finished the first, he immediately started the second, and only when the two were done, he carried Timber and Volk over one by one, laying them inside before covering them up.
“You are as dumb as you look,” Gjarper said once he returned, seeing the condition Valon’s hands were in.
Shrugging, Valon didn’t offer a response as he followed Gjarper back out, heading to the room where Gjarper usually readied him. Inside, Gjarper removed his tools from the box he kept them in.
First, they cleaned and bandaged Valon’s hands, carefully wrapping the gauze so that it wasn’t too tight. Since they had first begun training together, Gjarper had changed, and while Valon could never say they were friends, he was the only man here he at least could talk to without fear of punishment or Bastian finding out.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” Gjarper
said quietly, the same thing he always said before Valon entered the Pit. But this time, there was an edge to his words that wasn’t there before. “If you lose…there is nothing I can do for you.”
Valon stared down at his bandaged hands. “I won’t lose.”
Chapter 8
Valon entered the ring, the shouts of the spectators loud in his ears. Some were there for him—he recognized their faces—and knew that they had probably bet against him considering his odds in his last three fights. Which meant, if he won, then Bastian stood to make a lot of money, more than enough really.
His competition was a beast of a boy. He looked like he had been fighting since the time he was able to walk. Scars covered a good majority of his body, and when he turned his focus on Valon, it was clear that he was ready for things to get bloody.
It was the same boy he’d been forced to compete against in his first fight.
So much was the same, but a lot was different since the last time he’d entered the ring with him. First, Valon was not as afraid. Yes, he knew this fight would not be an easy one, and it was doubtful that this would be over in seconds like the last time, but Valon wasn’t the same.
The boy didn’t look as big as he once did, and even he seemed to notice the difference in Valon as well. He still had at least twenty pounds on him, but Valon had grown taller so they matched more evenly.
The roar of the crowd, money waving in the air, dogs barking in the distance—it all added to the atmosphere, but Valon, though plenty of incentive filled him, still couldn’t bring himself to want this. He hated fighting, not because of what he could potentially do to the other person, but because of a sweet, dark emotion that it sparked to life inside of him.
The City: A Novella Collection (Volkov Bratva Book 4) Page 12
