Sasha Ivanov was a killer.
At least, she had been. In another life. Now, her existence was devoted to frivolity. Revelry. Pleasure. Oh, the pleasure. Drinking, dancing, touching, kissing, heated words and touches … She’d been a devoted servant of her coven for far too long and she was finally free of responsibility and living her life. On her terms. Free of obligation and attachment.
The deep bass echoing through the club thumped in her chest, a pleasant pulse that vibrated outward through her limbs. Her tongue flicked out to close the punctures on the throat of the male she’d latched onto and she rocked back on her heels before turning away. The male—a shifter who obviously thought he was the shit—reached out and grabbed her arm to turn her so that her back pressed against his chest as he thrust his hips, grinding against her ass in time to the music.
He dipped his head to hers and said, “Baby, that was intense.”
Eh. She’d had better. The shifter’s hands wandered from Sasha’s torso, around to her stomach and down her thighs. He gave another thrust of his hips and his erection pressed against her ass. Again, not all that impressive. He’d already given her what she wanted. Sasha wasn’t interested in his body or anything else.
“I need a drink.”
The shifter spun Sasha around in his arms so she faced him. A spark lit behind his eyes, revealing a glimpse of his animal nature. He tilted his neck to one side, a brash invitation as he lowered his head to hers. “I’ve got what you need, baby. Take as much as you want.”
Ugh. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She’d had her fill of this male, thank you very much. He cupped the back of her neck with his palm to urge her closer. Idiot. She could drink him dry and leave him for dead in the middle of the dance floor without even batting a lash. And if he didn’t quit trying to force her to his throat, she might do just that. Sasha braced her palms against his chest and pushed away with enough force to let him know she meant business.
“Unless you’ve got Jose Cuervo running through your veins, you don’t, in fact, have what I need.” Sasha stepped back. “Go find some other ass to grind against. I’ll catch up with you later.” Try never. Sasha kept her thoughts to herself as she turned and left the shifter on the dance floor. She didn’t know his name, and frankly, she wasn’t interested in learning it.
“So. Bored.”
Sasha collapsed onto the bar with dramatic flair to emphasize her words. It was still early, only two in the morning, and she was nowhere close to calling it a night. The L.A. club scene never slowed down—especially in the supernatural world. It’s not like there was a shortage of entertainment, but she’d grown restless of the party scene and of males like the shifter she’d left out on the floor who thought they were special because they’d managed to hook up with one of a handful of vampires in existence. The thrill was gone. It had lost its appeal months ago. Sasha needed something new to excite her.
“Have another drink.” Ani, the sylph who tended bar at Onyx—one of three exclusively supernatural bars in the city—had become Sasha’s closest friend. Ani’s carefree, wild streak appealed to Sasha. She was always up for anything, any time.
“Ugh. My eyes are floating.”
Sasha had been guzzling cocktails for most of the night and had glutted herself on enough blood to keep her sated for at least a week. Thanks to her supernatural metabolism, the alcohol burned out of her system before she could reap its benefits. The blood, on the other hand, gave her a nice buzz that left her feeling pleasantly lightheaded. Even with all the feels, Sasha couldn’t drink another drop. She could find someone to fuck or go to another club or hit a quiet bar or two, but what was the point? She didn’t have the energy to kick anyone out of her bed at sunrise and she wasn’t going to find any entertainment anywhere else that was better or worse than what she could find at Onyx. Gods, she was restless.
“I’m so tired of this scene. There’s got to be something more entertaining than drinking, dancing, and hooking up.”
Ani gave her a wry smile. “Are you telling me you’re tired of gorgeous males throwing themselves at you every night?”
Huh. She guessed she was. Sasha had always been the quiet one. Reserved. Responsible. Dead serious in her role as head of security for her coven and then later, co-ruler. When her maker, Saeed, had left on his quest to find his mate, it had been Sasha’s breaking point. For too long she’d put others’ needs and happiness before hers. Not anymore. She’d decided it was time to be selfish. To live her life for herself. She had a lot of time to make up for, damn it. She refused to live with any more regrets.
Sasha didn’t reply to Ani’s teasing question. She just didn’t have the energy. She loved the club scene. Enjoyed being a carefree party-girl. But the thrill was sort of gone. She’d jumped from one rut to another and it was time once again for a change.
Ani let out a long-suffering sigh. “Gods, you’re hard to please.” She followed up the comment with her trademark snarky smile. “I’m off in an hour. If you don’t think it’ll kill you to wait, someone told me about an underground scene that’s picking up a ton of traction. We could go check it out.”
Sounded promising. “What kind of underground scene?”
Ani grinned. “Supernatural Thunderdome.”
Sasha snorted. “Like a fight club? I thought that sort of thing quit being edgy when MMA went mainstream.”
Ani slid a shot, a Stella, and the cocktail she’d just mixed, across the bar to the waitress who loaded it all on her tray. “Please. No one cares about a bunch of humans knocking each other around. This is like MMA on steroids. Fight to the death.”
High stakes for sure. But as creatures who could take a ton of damage without feeling so much as a pinch, Sasha figured it wouldn’t be worth it without raising the stakes. No doubt the atmosphere would be wild and dangerous. She needed something to shake her out of her comfort zone. Something to get the blood pumping in her veins. Something that made her feel a little unsafe.
“I’m in.”
“Good.” Ani grabbed a shot glass and artfully poured three levels of different liquors into the glass before sliding it toward Sasha. “Tastes just like an oatmeal cookie.”
Sasha downed the shot. It was okay. A little too sweet, but it did taste a lot like an oatmeal cookie. “Not too bad.”
“Go dance and kill some time,” Ani said with a laugh. “We’ll be out of here in an hour.”
Sasha pushed away from the bar and turned toward the dance floor. No sign of the shifter she’d blown off, which was good. Rather than hit the dance floor, though, Sasha headed for the door.
The sidewalk was almost as crowded as the inside of the club. Eager partygoers lined up down the street, waiting for an opportunity to be let inside. At the corner, a guy with a guitar belted out his version of Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You,” nodding as passersby dropped bills or coins into his open guitar case. At the opposite end of the block, a couple of hookers fought over something. Thanks to her supernatural hearing, Sasha could have easily eavesdropped, but really, why bother?
The affairs of humans didn’t interest her. They never had. Even as a dhampir, Sasha had kept herself separate from humans, careful not to form any entanglements. They were too fragile, their lives too short. Survival had been more important than bothering herself with the rest of the world. Even now, she was an endangered species.
Maybe she wasn’t so different from the humans after all. A few centuries ago, when the Sortiari had waged war on the vampires in their misguided quest to manipulate Fate, the vampire race had nearly been eradicated. If not for Mikhail Aristov—the last true vampire—surviving the attacks, the dhampir race would have died off as well. The two races were symbiotic. They needed one another to thrive. When Mikhail finally found his mate and ascended to power, he was finally able to turn dhampirs into vampires and to replenish their ranks. Sasha was one of ten vampires currently inhabiting the planet. To say their resurgence was tenuous was a bit of an understatement. Especially when rumors circulated that the berserkers who had once been under the Sortiari’s control had broken free of their bonds and continued the Sortiari’s abandoned quest to obliterate the vampire and dhampir races.
Her existence was far more fragile than she wanted to admit.
And yet, Sasha went out night after night, blatantly flaunting what she was. She drank from the throats of others in the public view, her fangs extended and lips stained crimson. She enjoyed the curious stares, the wonder, the whispered words, and even the fear she instilled in those around her. Sasha lived her life without restraints. Without shame. Without a single thought as to how her brazen actions would affect those in hers and other covens.
Wow. She really had become a selfish bitch. Then again, the soulless had little reason to worry about things like selflessness, duty, or love.
“Ready to roll?”
She turned to find Ani standing at the edge of the sidewalk a few feet away. She’d been so lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t realized she’d managed to whittle an entire hour away on the street.
“Ready.” Yep, Sasha was totally selfish. Soulless. And she didn’t see her attitude changing any time soon.
* * *
Adrenaline coursed through Ewan Brún’s veins. His heart thundered in his chest and his skin tightened on his frame. Power surged through him, anxious for an outlet to release its fury on and he was more than ready to free that power on the poor bastard who was about to fall beneath the weight of his fists.
A berserker didn’t need a weapon to be deadly. Ewan himself was a weapon.
“If Gregor or any of the others find out what you’re up to, you’ll get more than a sound beating.”
Ewan glanced at Drew, and let out a derisive snort at his cousin’s words of warning. When in the grips of full battle rage, a berserker warlord was nearly invincible. The only creature who stood a chance at an equal fight was another berserker. “You’re probably right.” Ian Gregor, the self-proclaimed king of their clan, didn’t approve of any activities that fell outside of his agenda. Gregor was consumed with his need for vengeance. And he expected every single male who answered to him to be as equally consumed.
Unfortunately, Ewan had lost interest in their leader’s vendetta years ago.
“That’s why no one’s going to find out.” Ewan trusted Drew. He wouldn’t utter a word about his extracurricular activities.
Beyond the confines of the tiny room they occupied, the raucous cheers of the crowd reached a crescendo. Looked like a winner in the current fight was about to be determined, which meant some miserable son of a bitch was about to take a dirt nap. Ewan didn’t subscribe to any particular religious belief. God … gods … a higher power … He didn’t believe in any of it. Nature made them what they were and when they kissed their asses good-bye, all that awaited them was nothingness.
Bleak? Maybe. But Ewan’s soul was shrouded in bleak darkness.
Tonight was about blowing off some steam and walking away with some cash. The supernatural fighting arena wasn’t for the faint of heart. If you entered into its confines you were either confident you’d win, or you had a death wish. Ewan wasn’t interested in dying. Nor did he doubt his ability to win. He’d take a hefty purse with tonight’s win, and after he gave Drew a small cut—after all, familial obligation was only part of earning his loyalty—Ewan would add it to his stash and be one step closer to his goal.
Freedom.
And not the bullshit version of freedom Gregor had promised them. For centuries they’d been indentured to the Sortiari. The so-called guardians of fate had promised Gregor his revenge if he swore allegiance and fought their war for them. He’d gladly accepted the Sortiari’s shackles—bringing what was left of their race with him—only to find the Sortiari’s promises were as fickle as Fate itself. They’d done the Sortiari’s bidding for centuries until Gregor decided they’d been slaves long enough. The revolt had been quiet and free of violence. No doubt, the director of the Sortiari, Trenton McAlister, didn’t want the word to get out that his guard dogs had broken their leashes. Still, rather than gift his brethren with their freedom, Gregor had replaced their collars with shackles of his own making. Each and every remaining member of their clan had pledged his undying loyalty to their clan and their leader. Gregor demanded nothing less.
“You keep winning, Gregor’s going to know something’s up without either one of us telling him. Word’s going to spread. And then what?”
Ewan turned his attention from the roar of the crowd to look at Drew. “Fuck Gregor.”
“Big talk, cousin.” Drew gave a sad shake of his head. “But if he finds out what you’re up to, he’ll make you watch as he guts you.”
Probably, but neither pain nor Gregor’s wrath frightened Ewan anymore.
“I keep winning, and I’ll finally have enough money to live my life on my own terms. We both will.”
Indentured servitude to the Sortiari hadn’t exactly been a lucrative gig. Now free of their so-called protection, the berserkers lived in poverty. Squatting wherever they could find shelter and practically begging for scraps in order to feed themselves. Every spare cent they had went to Gregor to fund his ridiculous vendetta. There were rumors Gregor sat on a small fortune that he refused to share in order to make their lives better. It was rarely talked about, however. No one dared to incite their leader’s infamous wrath.
Ewan didn’t give a shit about whatever money Gregor did or didn’t have. He was on the path to independence and there was no turning back.
“Who am I fighting tonight?” Ewan usually gave little thought to who he’d go up against. Berserkers sat at the top of the supernatural food chain. That he’d come out the victor was practically guaranteed. His mind was restless tonight, though. His nerves stretched taut as a tingle of anticipation raced down his spine. And he didn’t like it one fucking bit.
“Fae,” Drew replied with disinterest. “Not sure what kind.”
At least his opponent would give Ewan a challenge. Shifters and werewolves were strong, but he’d yet to find one stronger than him. Magic wielders were certainly tricky but without their magic, lacked the physicality necessary to overpower him. Fae, in most instances, possessed both magic and strength. They could be both quick and nimble. Ewan’s prize money wouldn’t be easily won tonight. He liked that.
“At least it’ll be interesting.” When the crowd was entertained, it raised the stakes. More money changed hands, which meant more cash in Ewan’s pockets.
Drew chuckled. “You’ve got that right.”
Ewan did little to prepare himself for the fight. No wraps to cover his knuckles, no protection of any kind. Why bother? He healed almost instantaneously and he didn’t feel pain in the same way other creatures did. As far as the supernatural world was concerned, he was a freak of nature. Beyond their comprehension. Feared. Reviled.
And he liked it that way.
Beyond the confines of the room, the crowd broke out into another round of chaotic cheers that refused to wind down. Ewan brought his gaze up to meet Drew’s and held it for a moment. A renewed rush of adrenaline raced through his bloodstream, triggering his body’s natural response to the impending fight. A resiliency that made him nearly indestructible.
“Looks like you’re on.”
Ewan bucked his chin in acknowledgment. “Looks like it.”
Drew’s lips spread into a wry grin. “Well, what are you waitin’ for? Get out there and kick a little ass.”
He’d do more than that. Ewan headed for the door. Drew held out his fist and Ewan knocked it with his own. He didn’t know if the fight would be over quickly, but he did know it would end with him coming out on top.
Ewan walked up the incline of a narrow concrete tunnel that led from the basement of the building to the ground floor where the fights were being held this particular night. The location changed regularly. Each building was protected by magic to deter humans, and likewise reinforced with darker magic to shield them from supernatural authorities who might be interested in shutting them down. Those wards weren’t as foolproof, however, which was why secrecy was key. Ewan didn’t care about getting busted. He hated to admit it, but his only concern was Gregor finding out. He took his beatings in the battle arena. He wasn’t interested in facing off with the most infamous berserker warlord to ever live.
Pomp and circumstance didn’t exist in this place. There were no flashy introductions, no grand entrances. No posturing and crowing for the bloodthirsty crowd. They simply dragged the dead from the arena, lauded the victor, and moved on to the next fight.
Ewan wasn’t a hero. Never had been. He was a killer, plain and simple. And it was time to go out there and show the eager crowd exactly what he was capable of.