Wildblood

Chapter 1

1

Kai

Nothing felt better than a sharp blade slicing through the larynx of an overconfident shit-talker. Well, almost nothing. Sex felt better, but only when Kai’s companion wanted to fuck him as badly as the owner of that larynx wanted to end him.

Scrapping inhibitions was easy; absconding jail time was not. He wished getting away with murder were simpler, though he had the good sense not to bother. There were other ways to scratch the itch—to get drunk on triumph. He just had to follow the rules. And tonight, there’d be no blades slick with blood, only knuckles scraped raw from pummeling muscle and bone.

A puff of air glanced off Kai’s cheek as he slanted his shoulder to avoid the incoming strike. The Sicilian stumbled past him, limbs flailing to slow the inevitable fall. Kai savored the taste of it—the bittersweet bite of helplessness that wafted from his attacker.

But Kai wasn’t a sadist—not much, anyway—so he cut the panic short with a heel to the back of the knee. The man’s leg buckled, and he crumpled like a stale cracker. The fighters that frequented the Confessional were ornaments. Like hollowed gourds with menace carved into them, they looked unnerving, but a tumble off a windowsill was enough to crack them open and leave them rotting in the sun.

The Sicilian caught himself and straightened, then whirled on Kai, throwing a wide arc of a messy hook that should’ve been a straight punch to the throat. Even the best-trained fighters got sloppy when they were tired.

Still, Kai let the blow land, angling his jaw to lessen the impact. He had to make it look convincing. An assault on his ribs followed, and he stumbled back, wincing when he heard a crack. His senses were both a blessing and a curse; he could detect every minute change in his opponent’s body—and in his own. The adrenaline masked the pain, but the tell-tale sign of a fractured bone wrenched at his animal senses.

No matter. A fracture wasn’t a break.

The crowd roared as Kai’s heel grazed the edge of the makeshift ring, and a dozen hands groped at his sweat-slicked skin, fingers running through his dark, disheveled hair. He regained equilibrium before the onlookers could thrust him forward, and he shrugged off the prying hands. Some nights, it felt like everyone wanted a piece of him.

He gritted his teeth and spat a coppery glob onto the floor. Connor, a hulking Irishman of a bartender, threw up his arms and wailed in protest. It would be his mess to clean. Kai ignored his friend’s bellyaching—somehow louder than the clamor—and flashed his winded opponent a bloody, shit-eating grin.

The ruddy Sicilian blanched at the sight of that baleful smile—a wolfish, cutting thing that promised more than victory. It promised pain.

Raising his fists, the boxy Italian darted forward, but Kai was done playing cat and mouse. Pitching a leg back and twisting his body away from the incoming punch, Kai pivoted to his opponent’s unguarded side, then drove a punishing uppercut straight into his kidney. Tendons tore against his knuckles, organs compressed, and several ribs snapped like dry pretzels. The Sicilian lurched, blood propelling from his mouth and splattering over Kai’s bare shoulder.

Their eyes met, and with a balmy smile, Kai patted the man’s cheek. “Put some ice on it,” he said, then blithely pushed him aside. The Sicilian toppled and hit the floor with a weighty thump, rasping for breath.

A momentary hush fell over the ruck before they erupted into cheers, the foundations of the bar rattling like a hut in the middle of a hurricane.

Kai sucked in a shaky breath as the hands returned, this time with their bodies, swarming him from all sides. It was mayhem almost every night, the no-touch policy afforded to the fighters rarely enforced. People came back for more than the blood sport; they relished laying hands on the most dangerous thing in the room. Kai gave his audience a sliver to slake their thirst before the onslaught overwhelmed him, and he pushed his way through the throng. Only when he reached the bar did they stop grasping for him, and he plunked himself down on a stool in front of Connor.

“What’d you say to that poor man?” the bartender asked as he dried a pint glass, the shamrock tattoo below the inside of his elbow catching Kai’s gaze. His Southie T-shirt was speckled with water, his shoulder-length blonde hair carelessly tied back, loose strands flying free around his stubbled jaw after a night of yelling and taking orders.

Kai yanked at the Velcro of his hand wraps, unraveling them slowly. While most fighters wore blue or beige, Kai’s were a bright yellow with CAUTION printed over them in bold black letters. They were a gift, and no matter how stained they got, he refused to switch them out. He reached over the oak counter and nabbed one of Connor’s dish towels, wiping the sweat and blood from his neck and face. “Told him to put some ice on his kidney.”

“You bastard,” Connor chided. “He’ll be pissing blood for weeks.”

Kai’s lips curled into a smirk as he helped himself to a glass of water, then rinsed out his mouth. Red-tinged liquid found the drain, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, sucking away the dregs of the metallic flavor. “Yeah, well, he cracked my ribs.”

“Your ribs will heal by tomorrow,” Connor reminded him.

Kai chuckled darkly, then gestured toward the shelves of booze wreathed in green Christmas lights that stayed up year-round. “Get me whiskey.”

His freakish speed, strength, and recovery weren’t common knowledge, nor was his ability to shift into a stygian wolf that could maul an overfed albatross with an eleven-foot wingspan. He could’ve taken out the Sicilian before anyone blinked, but a reputation for being invincible wasn’t as compelling as bouncing back from the gates of hell. That, and his employer liked it when he dragged things out. Everyone loved a spectacle, and Kai Donovan was South Boston’s finest.

“Fuckin’ beast, man,” someone whispered from several feet away . “How many people do you think he’s killed?”

If they only knew.

“Whatever,” replied another. “My buddy could kick his ass.”

Connor slid a tumbler of tawny liquid across the counter into Kai’s awaiting hand. “Don’t you dare,” he warned when he caught Kai’s attention drifting toward the gossip.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kai replied dryly, then took a sip of his drink.

He loved this place too damn much to spark a bloodbath. Nestled on the ground floor of a converted nineteenth-century row house, the Confessional was home to Boston’s seediest crowd, its once fawn-colored bricks grimy and stained with the decades. Rumor had it that one of the chefs had defenestrated a man back in the ’80s, but the sordid gossip only added to the ambiance. The back of the bar was sectioned off by an iron gate door and wood panels that ran across the width of the room, marking the entrance to the improvised ring. Large openings like windows in the wall gave everyone in the Confessional a view of the fight, and the partition doubled as a convenient obstruction in case of a police raid. Connor fronted the area as a private event space complete with tables and seating, but every regular knew its true purpose. When the floor was cleared, patrons filed through the gate or poked their heads through the faux windows in anticipation.

“By the way…” Connor tipped his chin to the side. “She’s been eyeing you all night.”

Kai tracked the motion to a woman at the opposite end of the bar. Her friend grabbed her arm, egging her on upon realizing he was looking their way. Vibrant auburn hair cascaded over the woman’s shoulders as she fiddled with the straw in her glass, her smoky eyes catching his across the room. She smiled, and her gaze flew to the empty seat next to her.

Kai squared his shoulders to Connor. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“She’s here every time you fight. You should cut her loose—let her down easy.”

Kai snorted into his glass. “It’s not my problem she’s ogling me every Saturday.”

“And Sunday. And Tuesday. Some Thursdays too.” He squinted in contemplation. “Pretty sure she’s here on Fridays as well.”

“If she wants a rejection, she can come here and ask me for one herself.”

“Oh, you’re an asshole.”

“Never been good with feelings,” said Kai.

“That’s a lie.” Connor jabbed his bare chest, then topped up the whiskey. “You’re a good guy, somewhere in there.”

Kai grumbled and gulped down his booze, scanning the patrons until he found who he was looking for. Sergei—a pasty Bratva middleman with a love of white dress shirts and leather suspenders. His slicked-back sunflower hair gleamed under the dim amber-lit sconces drilled through the wall. The teal Victorian wallpaper garnished with raspberry-colored floral patterns fissured around the mounts to reveal a craggy foundation. Everything in Boston was built atop an older world entombed beneath the last-laid bricks.

Connor shook his head. “That damn Ruski stands out worse than a turd in a bouquet. Russians don’t belong in my bar.”

“I’m Russian, you big dumb Thor.”

“Thor is Scandinavian.” He waved Kai off with a bear-like hand. “You’re a Donovan. You’re Irish.”

Something between a laugh and a whimper crawled out of Kai’s throat. “I’ve told you a thousand times—that was Alice’s name.”

“The snarky old bat who raised you?”

Kai nodded. “She took me in after my parents died—when I was ten. And my parents ,” he emphasized, “weren’t Irish.”

“Kai isn’t a Russian name either,” Connor pointed out.

“Not sure it’s my real name.” He shrugged. “But it’s the only one I’ve got.” It was also the only one he could remember. He figured it might’ve been a nickname. Maybe he’d been a Nikolai, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Kai was as good a name as any, and it’d grown on him over the years. He clanked his tumbler down as he rose. “Got to go for a bit.”

“Fine, fine, go conspire with your people,” Connor groused as if Kai hadn’t grown up in small-town Washington.

Kai kicked his stool under the counter. “If it’s any consolation, my mom was Tatar.”

Connor glanced his way and frowned. “You remember her?”

Drawing a half circle around the rim of his glass, Kai shook his head, his eyes trained on the puddle of brown liquid swirling with melted ice. “Just random fragments. Can’t remember what she looked like, but I know she hated smoked fish.”

“Who the hell eats smoked fish?”

Kai smirked, his dark mahogany eyes sparking with red mischief. “Russians.”

“At least you drink whiskey.” The bartender grinned. “May as well be Irish.”

Kai barked out a laugh and spun away, weaving through the swooning bodies now populating the marred floor. He hadn’t bothered changing, his naked torso and athletic frame earning him a few curious glances. Sergei certainly wasn’t the tallest man in the room—a solid head shorter than Kai’s imposing six feet and two inches—but he was always easy to find. He had a peculiar smell about him—a vinegary cocktail of irritation and apprehension that wormed beneath his coiffed veneer.

“You did good,” Sergei said without making eye contact, the remnants of a Slavic accent sharpening his vowels. Sometimes he opened conversations with Kai in Russian, but today he’d chosen English, code switching to blend in better with Connor’s crowd. His hands were shoved in his pockets as he rocked from heels to toes.

The guy hardly ever smiled. Sometimes, Kai forgot they were the same age—just barely out of their twenties. He never thought he’d make it to thirty-one, yet here he was, contending with the farce that was adulthood. “As long as you’re not asking me to fix fights, I’ll play.”

Sergei’s pale blue eyes swept over Kai’s grimy body, evaluating every muscle, every groove sculpted by adversity. “I’m surprised you bleed.”

The corner of Kai’s mouth quirked. “Still flesh and bone.” He raised a hand and curled two fingers toward himself. “Now pay up, milyy .”

“Right, right.” Sergei reached into his pocket with a mutter, ignoring the term of endearment— darling . Out came the wad of cash, bills counted with bank-like precision. “Your cut,” he declared, slapping a portion into Kai’s palm.

Sergei had never done him dirty, but Kai checked the math anyway. He was only peripheral to Bratva, a snarky, tough-as-nails punk Sergei contracted for underground fights, and he intended to keep it that way. It’d been a good investment for them both.

Kai rolled the cash into his fist and nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The blonde mobster replaced the money with a box of Parliaments, fiddling with the lid. He halfway popped out a cigarette, then shook it back into the case. “I’ll need you tomorrow night.”

Fuck . Kai knew there’d be something else. Sergei was always a stoic son-of-a-bitch, but the tartness to his scent seeped out like water from a leaky faucet. “Tomorrow’s my night off.”

“Tough shit.” Sergei’s teeth clamped tight. He was clearly itching for a smoke. “It’s important. The guy coming in—he’s good, and I need my best.”

Kai snorted at the meagre compliment. “Then you should’ve given me tonight off. My ribs are cracked.”

Sergei fixed him with an icy stare, his lips tugging into a frown. “They’ll heal.”

Kai swallowed his irritation. Sergei didn’t know much, but he knew that Kai wasn’t ordinary, and he kept that secret like bones beneath a gravestone. One of them needed the money, and the other wouldn’t have his operation squandered by accusations of cheating. Besides Connor and Sergei, no one in the business knew that Kai could take a gunshot wound to the chest and wake up the next day with little more than a few gnarly bruises and a tiny shot glass made from bullet casing. Sure, he could be killed, but it would take more than a lead nugget.

“Fine, I’ll be here, but you’re paying me double.” Kai wasn’t in a negotiating mood, and Sergei didn’t even flinch at the demand.

“I need you to finish it in one round,” the shorter man said. “That’ll get you double.”

“One round, huh?” A reverse of the usual request. The little shit in suspenders wanted people betting against Kai, ratcheting up the winnings for the underdog. He wasn’t a fan, but he supposed taking a few hits evened the odds, even if by an inch. A split lip, a bruised jaw, a bloody grin. It kept the crowd hooked like writhing worms, but it always ended the same way: with Kai fucking his opponent out of the night’s earnings and a working pair of kidneys.

“I want him out fast,” Sergei reiterated. “He’s made a name for himself, and there’s a lot on the line.”

Kai clicked his tongue and raised a finger. “All right. One round.”

Sergei nodded, the tension bracketing his mouth finally easing. “Good.”

Kai stalked back to the bar, money in hand, and hopped over the counter.

“Hey!” Connor griped as Kai invaded. “You’ve got to sit on the other side like everyone else.”

“Relax, I’m on my way out.” He shoved his hand wraps into his jacket, grabbed his change of clothes, and hugged the wall into the adjacent corridor. One of the staff yelped when he strode into the kitchen and proceeded to strip off his sweatpants.

“Christ on a cracker!” the cook yelled as she stirred a pot of stew, eyes darting between her business and his.

Kai shot her a wry smile as he zipped up his jeans and threw on a gray T-shirt. “You’re welcome, Carol.”

“I didn’t thank you, you cocky sack of testosterone.” She let the ladle clank against the rim of the pot and planted her hands on her hips, her frizzled orange curls fleeing her hair net. “There’s a damn bathroom right down the hall.”

“Too far. Too occupied.” Kai slipped on his black leather jacket and flung his sweatpants over his shoulder, then grazed the inside of his pockets to double-check for the wraps and his wallet.

“Hey,” Carol called to him as he turned to leave. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

She shook off the ladle, then traced a circle through the air. “Nice butt.”

Kai blinked, then erupted into raucous laughter as he exited the kitchen.

“Going home?” Connor asked as Kai poured himself a final shot of whiskey and dropped a twenty by the till.

“Yep.” Kai threw back his farewell drink, then slid the glass down the length of the bar where Connor caught it.

“Say hi to the girls for me.”

The prospect of home warmed him more than the liquor. When had he gotten so fucking squishy? “Will do.”

After a parting knock on the shoulder, Kai left Connor to his sloshed patrons and waded to the front door.

The mid-October air soothed his sticky skin, and even in the dark, he could make out the ochre and burnt red hues of autumn foliage—courtesy of his sharp sight. As the noise from the bar faded, the quiet of the midnight street enveloped him, and he settled into an easy stride. Kai absently thumbed the bills in his pocket, his thoughts drifting. Who did Sergei want beaten in a single round? Was he concerned about Kai’s odds, or were his nerves fraying prematurely?

No, that couldn’t be it. Sergei was cautious, not paranoid. Whoever this opponent was, he had to be something. The stakes wouldn’t be twice as high otherwise.

Kai’s hand dropped to his side, and he breathed in the cool air tinged with rain and sodden earth. It didn’t matter. The rest of the night was his. He fished out his wallet and checked for the old keepsake that followed him wherever he went: a tattered piece of lilac birthday card marked with Alice’s shaky scrawl. It was all he had left of her.

Happy Birthday, Kai Donovan .

She’d written his sixteenth birthday present right into the card. Before that moment, he hadn’t been a Donovan. He didn’t even remember the family name he’d been born with. After six years together, Alice finally gave him a new one: her own.

He craned his neck to admire the moon, swollen with silver light. Alice never cared for clichés, but every day of the six years he’d spent under her roof, she’d sworn by a single adage: home is where the heart is .

He’d always thought it was stupid; a kid couldn’t choose his home. But the hardest part wasn’t being born into a home he didn’t choose. It was watching the pretenses fall away and the walls of the house crumble to ruin, because home wasn’t a given.

The hardest fucking part, he’d learned, was finding his damn home.