Wildblood

Chapter 4

4

The hairs on Kai’s neck rose like hackles, his mouth curling into a grimace. Even in his human body, he could tap into that animal sense that warned him when he was being watched.

“Feels weird tonight.” Connor shook his head as he surveyed the bar. “The faeries are up to something.”

“Faeries aren’t real.” Kai sipped his whiskey. After shrugging off his jacket, kicking away his boots, and changing out of his cargo pants, he sat lounging at the bar while he waited for his opponent, his caution tape wraps folded next to him on the counter.

Connor’s steely gaze slid to his friend. “Should you be drinking before a match?”

“My ribs hurt,” he said flatly. “Fractures are healed, but I’m still sore. Whiskey takes the edge off.”

“You could’ve taken an Advil,” Connor pointed out, his palm thumping on the counter for emphasis.

Kai pushed the now empty tumbler away and stood. “I’m good.”

“You say that a lot.”

“And I never lie.”

“Doesn’t mean you know what you’re talking about.” Connor tilted his chin. “Hey, Donovan. Be careful. I hear this one’s tough.”

Kai removed his socks, shoved them into his boots, and stripped off his shirt. “They all are.” He smirked, eyes flitting to Connor’s. “For humans.”

Carol ambled out of the kitchen and behind the counter, hooting as she wiped the dew from her forehead, then swiped the Jack to pour herself a shot. “It’s smokin’ for a Sunday.”

“See,” Connor warned with a wag of his finger, “something’s up.”

“Weird shit happens every day,” said Kai, to which Carol nodded and raised her glass.

“Faeries,” mumbled Connor.

Kai snorted, pulled his beat-up phone from his pants pocket, and texted Miya—a small balm for disrupting their night together. Then, he handed the device to Connor—habit to ensure he didn’t lose it in the inevitable chaos. The cracked screen and dented corners were lesson enough to take precautions.

The Confessional filled up, the murmurs around him cresting as the door chimes announced new arrivals. A bluster swept through as two men strode in. The first was stout, in his fifties with a loose tie and a balding head. Behind him, a sentient tower of hulking muscles followed, his track suit straining against his bulging quadriceps and impossibly wide back. He wasn’t much older than Kai, his hands already balled into fists at his sides, ready to punch holes into anything that moved funny. As the door slammed shut, a chilly gust washed the man’s scent toward Kai, raising his skin into gooseflesh. He knew this scent.

The large man’s gaze darted up, his dark eyes frigid. His hair was the color of mud, thick tresses tied back in a loose, messy bun. Tension bracketed his mouth as he quashed a scowl, and in the way he moved, Kai detected a barely restrained wildness, a brutality waiting to be unleashed.

The shorter, balding one turned his head and whispered over his shoulder, “Ne otvlekaysya.”

Don’t get distracted.

Barring traded insults with Sergei, Kai hadn’t spoken Russian in years, but he refused to forget it. As a teen, he filched dictionaries from the school library and any piece of literature he could find from garage sales and second-hand stores, determined to cling to the only remaining piece of his old life. Almost everything had slipped away like water through his fingers, but this, he’d guard with everything he’d invested in snubbing his high school teachers.

The two Russians circled around to the far side of the bar, though not before shooting Kai a baleful glower. They knew who he was. Moments later, Sergei made his appearance, his collar wrinkled and his armpits sweat-stained as he removed his coat and slicked back his straw-colored hair. The candied strands had fallen out of place, windswept from the bitter cold.

“Everything all right?” Kai asked, eyeing him warily.

Sergei patted himself down for his wallet, then ordered a drink. After begrudgingly sliding a Sazerac to his nemesis, Connor made himself invisible in the corner, observing the goings-on with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. The air felt heavy, weighing on the skin like a soupy summer fog.

Sergei’s attention snagged on the newcomers. “Yes,” he answered after a pause. “Are you ready for the fight?”

Kai shrugged. “Ready as ever.” He wasn’t sure why Sergei expected tonight to be any different, but he chalked it up to those piddly nerves.

The blonde man nodded and let out a shaky breath. “Good. Don’t forget, there’s a lot on the line. I need this over in one round.” He fished a crumpled cigarette box out of his pocket and smacked it against his palm until one of the cancer sticks popped loose.

“So you’ve said,” Kai reminded him. “Relax. He’s got tree trunks for limbs. He’s probably as fast as a brick on an even surface.”

Sergei cast Kai a withering look as he bit down on the cigarette. “You can’t joke about everything.”

“I’ll joke until my dick falls off?—”

“And you can’t smoke in here.” Connor appeared behind them, knocking Sergei on the arm. “Take it out front.”

Sergei huffed and snatched the cigarette from his lips, then shoved it into his pocket. “Sorry. Forgot.”

Connor threw his arms up. “How the hell do you forget about a law that’s been in place for years?”

Kai knew how. Sergei had lost his fucking head. “You need to chill.”

“How’re your ribs?” the mobster asked, dismissive.

Kai palpated the tender muscles in his abdomen. “Almost fine.”

Connor shot him a dubious glare from where he stood behind the counter, but Sergei seemed satisfied.

“Don’t fuck up,” was all the piss-haired brat had to say.

“Don’t shit those expensive pants,” Kai sniped back, bumping his shoulder as he shoved past him.

Employees maneuvered the furniture from behind the gated door, fashioning the makeshift ring. Table legs screeched in protest, and a dozen or so chairs lined the perimeter of the open floor. Kai’s foe was seated in one of them, shirt off and legs spread like his dick was too big for courtesy.

There were no referees for the fights—just a well-tolerated honor code that rarely had to be enforced. No one worth a damn wanted to win by cheating, and when someone got knocked down badly enough, their adversary usually knew to call it a day. If things went sideways, Connor was there to interfere. He may have been gentle as cotton ball, but the man was six-foot-four and built like a monster truck. He’d maul anyone who threatened the delicate peace of the Confessional—a neutral territory between different factions in the underworld. Laypeople were still the main clientele, and the bar had a reputation to uphold. Although Connor’s family had loose ties to the Irish mob, they kept enough distance to turn the Confessional into a haven. Sure, they hated Bratva, but they had to tolerate everyone. Kai was grateful for it; he made all his money here. He steered clear of Bratva, but for all intents and purpose, he was their fighter through Sergei.

Unlike Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian Mafia that exploited notions of family to keep order, Bratva units were only loosely affiliated with one another and operated independently. Competition and infighting were common, which was likely how he’d wound up in a match against another Russian.

Kai rolled his shoulders back, banishing the tension creeping into his spine. After wrapping his hands, he hopped over a table and through one of the faux windows along the partition, then approached the ring. His opponent rose, body unfolding like a looming portent. He must’ve been six and a half feet tall. Massive shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the angle dizzying, and although he wasn’t as lean as Kai, he looked like he could stop a train barehanded. Worst of all, the behemoth showed no sign of rampant overconfidence.

His stillness was unnerving.

“Get on with it!” a drunk patron hollered from behind the flimsy barrier.

Scanning their audience, Kai’s gaze narrowed when he glimpsed bright auburn hair among the throng—the woman who’d been at the bar last night. Connor said she came to every match, and he wasn’t exaggerating.

Kai hooked a foot around one of the chair legs and dragged it aside, then stepped into the ring. His opponent mirrored him, his easy strides eating up the distance until there was barely a foot between them. Kai took in a slow, deep breath, teasing apart the other man’s scent. His heartrate was slow, steady, and where others reeked of pungent sweat and fear, this man smelled like winter and smoke and something Kai couldn’t place. But what unsettled him most was the roil of familiarity—like some dormant thing lurking in the recesses of his mind had stirred.

Siberia. He smelled like Siberia.

“Your name?” the Russian’s voice rumbled like a motor engine. His accent was thick, like he was unaccustomed to the way English fell from the tongue.

Kai quelled the urge to brush him off. Most people didn’t care for his name, but he didn’t often get to give it either. “Kai Donovan.”

The man’s thick eyebrows rose just enough for Kai to see curiosity flicker across his eyes. “Donovan…” he trailed off. “An unusual name.”

“They’re a dime a dozen around here.”

The man chuckled under his breath, his mouth barely curving. “Unusual for you ,” he clarified.

Kai set his jaw, unable to volley a response at the veiled remark. “You got a name to give, or are you just here to take mine?”

A divot appeared in the spoke of the man’s left cheek as his smile nearly reached his eyes. “Zverev,” he said, then languidly backed away to give Kai his space. “Ivan Zverev.”

Zverev.

An icy specter coiled around Kai’s heart and tore the beating mass into his gut. His stomach churned, and he swallowed through clenched teeth as nausea clawed up his esophagus. Kai only realized he was holding his breath when his lungs began to burn, and he forced the air in through his nose.

Zverev.

He couldn’t remember if or when he’d heard that name, but some long-forgotten part of him, locked in the underbelly of his psyche, recognized it—reacted to it.

Zverev.

It was a Slavic surname like any other, yet the mere mention of it was a serrated blade riving him in two.

Zver .

Beast.

Someone shoved Kai from behind, snapping him out of his plummet into darkness. His opponent— Zverev —was charging, closing the gap between them fast. Too fast. His elbow pulled back, his torso rotating as he wound up for a downward strike. His entire midsection was exposed, but Kai sensed it was a trap—an enticing target to lure him in.

Kai darted back and twisted out of the way, evading the behemoth’s fist by a hair’s breadth. It’d come down faster than expected, and Kai felt the air slice past his nose. The big man hit hard.

Sergei wanted the match over in a single round, but Zverev wasn’t just big and strong; he was nimble, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a featherweight. Definitely not a brick on an even surface.

Kai risked a gander at Sergei. He was gnashing his teeth, his face red with alcohol and apprehension. Around them, men and women yelped and cheered, egging them on. Normally, fighters charged at Kai like he was a Black Friday sale, but neither he nor his colossal opponent were that dumb. While the first swipe had seemed explosive, Kai knew it was little more than a leisurely test.

Zverev raised his fists and pumped them forward, then circled Kai like a wolf funneling prey into an alcove. The bastard was neither na?ve nor scared as he crowded Kai toward the line of chairs. The next swing came faster, but Kai was ready, parrying Zverev’s hulking arm and landing a disorienting kick just above the knee. Zverev’s leg buckled, but he quickly recovered, pivoting on his stable foot and dashing out of the way. His heel brushed the edge of the ring, and with alarming agility, he leapt forward, throwing a jab at Kai’s nose.

A textbook faint, forcing a high block that would expose Kai’s injured ribs.

Kai dropped his shoulder and slapped Zverev’s fist down as though it were a gnat, his patience whittling down to sliver. “You going to flirt with me all night?”

The behemoth’s lip curled at the taunt, his eyes sparking to life. “What’s wrong, Donovan ?” he sneered the name. “I didn’t think you’d be so bashful.”

Irritation needled the back of Kai’s neck, that low simmer ratcheting up to a boil. He was off his game. His limbs felt heavy, his reflexes tardier than his brain cells the morning after a nasty bender. Something about hearing that name—Zverev—had burrowed under his skin like a festering splinter. No matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn’t salve the unease blossoming in his gut, its slimy tendrils snaking around his bones, bridling him until he was as stiff as a marionette.

“Sometimes I like playing hard to get.” Kai flashed him a menacing grin, then shot forward, matching Zverev’s uncanny speed. If the big man wanted to dance, Kai would oblige. He may have been smaller, but he refused to believe that a walking dump truck could outmatch his agility. Zverev’s arm whaled through the air. It would’ve been one hell of a bitch slap, but Kai ducked, his torso sailing in a low arc before he popped up next to his foe. Cupping Zverev’s nape to lock him in place, Kai whipped an elbow right across his face. Flesh undulated as bone met bone, and the towering Russian stumbled.

Zverev bared bloodied teeth as his head snapped back into place, and he puffed heavily. His brows furrowed, sweat trickling down the side of his face as he reconsidered his opponent.

Then, he smiled.

Not the cocky, shit-eating grin Kai wore like armor, but a beam of genuine, unfettered joy.

“Nakonets!” he bellowed, then slapped both cheeks with open palms, revving himself up.

Nakonets. Finally.

Finally, what?

Zverev barreled forward and slammed into Kai, who dropped his center of gravity and braced just a moment too late. Organs rattled between muscle and bone as he nearly flew out of the ring and into a throng of observers. His joints screamed from tension, his heels skidding across the floor.

Shoving Kai back, Zverev dipped low and drove an uppercut into his stomach. Kai torqued his midsection to protect his injured ribs, but the behemoth’s fist landed like a concrete slab. White hot pain tore through his abdomen, radiating up his back and along his jaw. He nearly doubled over, black specs dotting his vision. So, this was what it was like to see stars.

Kai fought to stay on his feet, his knees wobbling as he rasped for air and gulped down the bile that bubbled up with a wave of nausea. Slumping over, he fixed his hand against the floor and pushed off, springing out of the way. He’d taken a lot of beatings in his life, but he sure as shit wasn’t used to getting hit by someone as tough as him—maybe tougher. Their opening dance had been little more than a courtesy.

It was an unwelcome revelation: Ivan Zverev had been toying with him.

Kai felt a mounting urge to whirl on Sergei and huck a chair at his puny ass. Why the fuck had no one told him that Ivan Zverev wasn’t a man, but a monster penned from the same ink as Kai?

Surely, Sergei had known. He’d insisted on caution despite Kai’s record, and in his arrogance, Kai had assumed his opponent would be like all the others—an ill-equipped human with too much ego and too little to lose.

Maybe Kai wasn’t much different.

He was in no position to stomp his feet and throw a tantrum. The blinding pain in his torso had dulled to a tolerable ache, but Zverev wouldn’t let him collect himself. He charged again, but Kai wasn’t about to let a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound boulder crash into him a second time. He wheeled around Zverev, using his agility to pivot behind him. Zverev spun, whipping his arm around like a cudgel, but Kai arched back and side-stepped him, then thrust his leg out with a push-kick to the sternum. Thrown off balance, Zverev’s heel clipped the floor, and he toppled several of the stools. Before he could orient himself, Kai lunged, mincing every weak point on the human body: kidneys, armpits, the sciatic nerve. Crimson splattered across his neck when his fist connected with Zverev’s jaw, but just when he thought the tower might topple, a giant hand clamped down on his forearm.

Kai bit back a grimace. Pulling away was useless; his best bet was to lean into the snare and maneuver with his foe until he found a loophole. On the street, Kai would’ve sliced a blade straight up Zverev’s IT band and left him for dead, but they were at the Confessional where there were rules — annoying, intrusive-as-fuck rules. And Zverev was the fastest heap of muscle Kai had ever shared oxygen with. The behemoth’s fist collided with Kai’s jaw, jostling his brain around the inside of his skull. Air rushed past his face as gravity betrayed him, and the din in the bar warped into a muffled cacophony.

Don’t hit the floor.

Easier said than done.

Don’t hit the fucking floor.

Out of sheer spite, Kai willed his body to rotate, but he couldn’t stop the fall. He met those rotting old boards on his side, the grains like sandpaper on his skin. Zverev dove for him, and he rolled out of the way. Struggling to his knees, he barely managed to get a foot flat on the ground. His mouth filled with a metallic taste, and he spat it out, spraying the floor in red, but more flowed over his tongue—an unwelcome reminder that he too could bleed. The once-welcome clamor was like knives shoving into his ears. Nausea wracked his body, and the room tilted like a ship in a storm, lights glaring and faces bending.

“Fuck,” Kai growled, fingertips pressing into the grimy wood as he tried to drown out the noise, but there was just too much.

“Tap out!” he heard Connor bellow over the crowd. “Tap the hell out, you stubborn ass!”

Nothing ignited Kai’s defiance like being told to tuck his tail between his legs. A low, primal sound rippled from his throat as he punched into the floor, planted his foot, and propelled himself upright.

Zverev offered no quarter. He leveled Kai onto his back with a rough tackle, then pinned him down and grappled for a chokehold. Kai lifted his elbows to keep the beast at bay only to take five knuckles to the gut. The air fled his lungs, and a sharp twinge of panic vised around his neck like a living noose. He was trapped.

“You’re a scrappy little shit, I’ll give you that,” Zverev grit through his teeth.

Only a man the size of a skyscraper would have the audacity to call Kai little.

Air whistled past his cheek as Zverev’s fist wound back for another assault. His giant body unfolded, and Kai glimpsed an opening. Shoring up his strength, he launched his torso off the floor and drove a forearm straight into the behemoth’s throat, then clamped his teeth around the soft, pink nub on his chest. Kai jerked his head to the side with a feral snarl, tearing flesh like a rat in a snare—frenzied and drunk on mindless instinct. Blood spattered over his face, coloring his vision scarlet as a bone-cutting scream ripped from Ivan Zverev, and he reeled back, freeing his prey. Kai trundled over and spat out the stray nipple, then clambered to his feet.

A hush fell over the crowd as Zverev’s wails filled the void.

“That’s a violation!” came the manager’s objection as he rushed toward his shambling fighter, now clutching his wounded breast.

Connor was slack-jawed behind the bar, his horror as raw as runny egg whites. Of course, Zverev’s handler wasn’t wrong; the rules of engagement were simple: no weapons, no eye-gouging, no nut shots, and definitely no biting. Ripping a man’s tit off was the equivalent of brandishing a pair of knitting needles and lunging for the eye sockets.

“Animal!” The balding, red-faced Russian thrust an accusatory finger at Kai. “Vanya”—he turned to the towering fighter—“get cleaned up.”

Vanya nodded, his gaze meeting Kai’s as he sucked in sharp, quick breaths, then shook his head. “You have no self-control.”

Kai ground his teeth to gravel. Shame coated his tongue, more bitter than the blood, but he had nothing to wash it down with. After the stunt he just pulled, he doubted Connor would let him anywhere near the whiskey.

Ivan Zverev was right; Kai really had gone off the rails. He’d never met his match, but his opponent had been ready—knew what he was up against. Fight or flight had grabbed Kai by the balls, but he wasn’t wired for flight, so he fought, and he fought dirty. Normally, it didn’t matter. He was happy to sully his hands in a bar brawl or a back-alley scrap, but in a high-stakes contest with strict parameters, his impulses were hardly commendable. They made him volatile. He’d won the fight, but he’d lost the match, and now he’d pay for his facile victory.

“What the hell was that?” Sergei hissed as he yanked Kai away by the arm and spun him around.

Kai whipped free. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me what I was up against?”

“What does it matter?” Sergei rebuked. “Do you think he knew what you are?”

“He sure as shit seemed to.” Rage and confusion roiled under Kai’s skin like lava. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Tell me who he is.”

“Forget that.” Sergei waved him off, unperturbed by the boiling cauldron next to him. “He’s a freak like you, and that’s all you need to know. The point is, you fucked up. You really fucked up.”

Kai glared through Sergei’s skull like he could sear his brains to char. What was he supposed to say? Oops ? Sorry I ruined his symmetry ? “He had me pinned.”

“So, you panicked and bit him like some rabid dog?” Sergei seethed as he threw his hands up.

“My bad,” Kai grunted, the admission of fault knotting his insides.

Sergei planted his hands on his hips as he paced, scowling into the middle distance. “You have no idea what you cost us.”

It wasn’t often that Kai felt the weight of dread settle in the pit of his stomach. It was heavier than he expected, like a sack of rocks bound to someone’s ankles.

“Fuck.” Kai huffed, his shoulders slumping. “How much?”

Sergei whirled on him. “What?”

The back of Kai’s neck prickled with a slimy new layer of foreboding. “How much money do I owe Bratva?”

“Money?” Sergei scoffed, shaking his head.

Kai’s lips parted, one side of his face scrunching. “Don’t I owe you scumbags for the loss?”

The noise of the bar fell away, the air between them curdling like sour milk. Sergei took a harsh step forward and grasped Kai by the shoulder, the tension in his fingers seeping into Kai’s bones.

“It’s not money you owe, friend.”