Spectators stood around the gate, spittle raining from their mouths as they cheered on the bloody battle on the other side, two fighters trying their best to survive the night. Even when blood sprayed, the smell of copper scenting the air, no one minded. They thrived on the gore.

And yet, Valon couldn’t hear any of it, the blood rushing in his ears too loud. Fear had taken hold of him since he’d returned to the barn, and after a fitful night of sleep, spent mostly imagining the horrors he would face in the Pit, he was exhausted. But with the adrenaline coursing through him, at this moment, he couldn’t sleep even if he tried.

With a hand on his shoulder, Gjarper led him through the crowds, his hulking presence giving them easy passage. He hadn’t spoken a word to him since his ominous warning the night before, but from his expression, Valon didn’t think that he was any happier about this than he was.

But that could have just been wishful thinking on his part.

They stopped next to a line of boys, both older and younger than Valon, who were all waiting their turn in the Pit. None looked eager to face their opponent, and judging from the bruises already present, this wouldn’t be their first time.

Valon, shaking with fear, watched the end of the current fight, momentarily frozen—or transfixed—by the sheer amount of blood present. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, coupled with sweat and anticipation.

There were only two in the center of the dirt floor—Valon had heard of there being more once—and only one was left standing, dark blood dripping from his mouth and at least a couple of his teeth missing. As the crowd cheered, he stumbled on his feet, almost seemed drunk as he stared down at the boy who lay in a heap, unmoving. He didn’t cheer his victory, but a dark gleam in his eyes burned itself into Valon’s mind.

Six more fights, each bloodier than the last, went on before Valon found himself at the front of the line. He was trembling so badly that he garnered the attention of the handler at the front who was waiting for his cue. Noticing Valon’s fear, he smirked, revealing two rows of silver capped teeth. Though he didn’t mean to, Valon shrank back, wishing there was a way out of this for him.

A bell sounded from a distance, but he could hardly hear it with the blood rushing in his ears. He could just see Bastian sitting high above the crowd, a glass of expensive liquor no doubt clutched in his right hand. His gaze shot to Valon, and when they locked, he smiled cruelly, moving to his feet.

“Fresh meat,” he called to the crowd, riling them up further. “And his opponent…”

A boy, at least six years older than Valon, stepped into the Pit, shirtless, and unlike the rest of the boys who had been brought forward before him, he looked eager for this. The handler, who’d still been smiling at Valon, gave him a shove, forcing him forward before he was ready.

Not expecting it, he pitched forward, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt and sand. He didn’t know much about fighting, having only been on the receiving end of his father’s fists and witnessing the abuse his mother suffered, but if there was one thing he knew, it was to stay on his feet.

On the ground he was more vulnerable, more likely to be kicked in the head, or worse.

He had no chance of winning this, Valon knew, but at least he would do this on his feet.

Pushing himself up off the ground, he eyed his opponent, trying to see what he was up against. The boy was a few inches taller and had at least fifty pounds on Valon’s smaller frame.

Despite having lived in this place for years now, he had never seen him, nor could he recall actually crossing paths with any of the boys here. He doubted they stayed in the old house, but since he had yet to leave the property, he had no idea whether Bastian had another house somewhere that housed them.

There was only one thing he was completely sure of as he balled his fists, lifting them in front of him. By the time this was over, he was going to hurt. Bad.

One second he was trying not to pass out from the adrenaline, the next a bell was ringing and the cheers of the crowd grew deafening, and before he could blink, the boy was on him, landing a hit to his face that made him see stars.

Valon didn’t have a chance to move away, not even enough time to lift his fists again. Blow after blow landed, pain exploding throughout his face, and after a particularly brutal punch forced the sensitive inside of his cheek against his teeth, blood poured into his mouth.

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, lying 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 words 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, your mother was a whore, your 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 lie there and die. What do you choose?”