Chapter 298. Rat Fight II

Chapter 298: 298. Rat Fight II

Maisie

Quinlan took another sudden turn down a narrow alleyway, plunging us into a dead end walled off by a towering, windowless fence that reached so high it swallowed the sky whole.

It looked completely abandoned and dilapidated, and I was on the verge of asking him if he truly didn’t have plans on kidnapping me when he tapped the horn twice.

The sound echoed off the alley walls. Then, the fence parted at the seam.

A hulking bouncer stepped out from a concealed side door and my brows lifted. Impressive.

His face was a patchwork of jagged scars, and though his eyes were hidden behind pitch-black sunglasses, I felt his heavy gaze drag slowly over my skin.

His thin lips parted, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Code?"

Quinlan leaned his elbow out the window, a dark, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "Bunnies."

I hid my surprise at that.

The bouncer didn’t return Quinlan’s smile as he stepped back, murmuring into a wrist comm.

A heavy, metallic groan resounded ahead, and a concealed door began to rise, revealing a cavernous garage glowing with the slick gleam of high-end cars tucked into the shadows.

As the convertible rolled past the entrance, the heavy door slammed shut behind us, locking out the world.

A heavy bass beat thrummed through the tires, rattling my bones, and I was willing to bet the fighting dens were underground.

My eyes widened as the headlight swept over the dark corners of the garage. To my left, a stark-naked human woman was bent over the hood of a matte-black sports car, her spine arched at an impossible angle as a towering werewolf gripped her hair, pulling her head back so hard her throat was exposed while he slammed into her from behind.

I tore my gaze away swiftly and Quinlan chuckled like he could see the blush tainting my cheeks through the darkness.

I forced my gaze ahead and even then, it didn’t spare me. Everywhere I looked was a different kind of chaos.

Two wolves were tearing into each other, while a small crowd cheered, exchanging crumpled stacks of cash. In another, a half naked woman was snorting a thick white line off the thigh of a guard whose hand was buried deep between her legs.

It was a cesspool of... depravities. And while I had seen worse, it was still shocking because I had grown up in Ashbourne and I’d never seen or even known a place like this existed.

"Mercer’s h-here?" I stammered, unable to wrap my mind around... why.

"Oh, the real show’s underground," Quinlan said, not bothering with the standard parking lanes. He cut the wheel, gliding smoothly into a broad, velvet-roped reserved space near the underground access point.

"He’s been eluding us for a while, making it impossible to track him down, even with the bond," he finally explained, putting me out of my misery. "But we received a slip that he may or may not be slotted in for today’s fight. Knowing him, it’s worth taking a look."

"Knowing him?!" I echoed.

The engine died, taking with it the headlight, plunging us into the neon red glow of the garage’s emergency strips.

"We each have our different ways of handling guilt and pain."

Oh.

He leaned back in his seat, the red light catching the beautiful line of his jaw. "Soren busies himself with finding solutions. He calculates, he pushes things around"--I thought he meant manipulated--"he fixes them. Jericho drowns in it, letting it consume him until he can pick himself up and bulldozes his way back out.

He didn’t mention how he handled his. "Mercer..." He murmured. "Mercer likes to find a suitable atonement."

My insides twisted. "Atonement?"

He reached into the back seat, pulling out a leather jacket. "Depends on his twisted scale. You can never be too sure. But he almost always gets his ass beaten. If I didn’t know better, I’d think masochism was his turn on. Tonight’s a little peculiar, though."

He got out the car and tsked in disapproval when I tried to get the door myself.

"How so?" I asked when he helped me out of the car and draped his leather jacket over my shoulder.

I was almost glowing like a beacon in here and I was grateful for the cover.

His hand landed on my waist as he shut the door and tossed the keys at the valet on standby. "You see, I have no idea what the fucker is thinking, going for a FTTD."

At my questioning look, Quinlan said, "Fight to the death." Oblivious to the horror on my face, he continued, "If he wanted to die, couldn’t he go to his mother and ask her to break the bond, and then he could go find a lake to drown in a lake or something? Why should we all have to die with him?"

He stopped, noticing my fear and worry. Then he beamed, all sunshine and shiny stars as we neared the red-labeled elevator. "Oh. I’m sure it’s nothing. He probably just needs you to knock him down a peg or two and he’ll be fine." He paused. "I think."

Like that was supposed to be reassuring.

Quinlan hit a button, and the elevator doors slid open with a heavy, metallic hiss.

The moment we stepped inside, Quinlan’s arm anchored firmly around my waist, pulling my back flush against his chest. "Relax," he said and I could hear the laughter in his voice, like he could tell I was scared out of my mind.

"I’m relaxed--"

We dropped.

My stomach lurched into my throat and I screamed, clinging to him for dear life. I swear the bastard was cackling the louder I screamed.

I hated heights. He knew that. He could’ve at least, warned me. And this was no elevator. It was a ride straight to hell.

With a bone-jarring clang, the hell-ride came to a sudden halt.

If Quinlan’s arm wasn’t holding me up, my knees would have given out. Oh goddess. I was going to be sick.

His blue eyes bright with laughter. "You’re welcome."

"Jerk," I answered, but my voice was tiny and shaky as we exited the elevator.

The roar of noise was deafening. Hundreds of voices screamed for blood, howling and cheering.

The air was thick, heavy with the suffocating stench of sweat, alcohol, spilled blood, and so much testosterone, it made me dizzy.

The crowd fought each other, pushing against the mesh way ahead of the dimly lit cavernous room. There were too many to see what was happening, but I smelled blood. So much of it, my heart clenched tight with worry.

Please let him be okay.

Quinlan’s hand circled my wrist, weaving us through the crowd. Heads turned. Naturally. People always noticed when a Lycan was in the building, and Quinlan’s aura was projected around me protectively, sending every male scrambling away from me if they were within my path.

The women though, they didn’t have the same reservation. They watched Quinlan unabashedly, running hungry gazes over him like he was a snack.

A voluptuous woman with purple dye streaking her hair strutted over, cutting into our path. Her lips were painted blood-red, her eyes heavy with dark eyeliner as she leaned directly into his chest, completely ignoring me.

Nope. I wasn’t even there.

"Looking to lay down some action tonight, handsome?" she purred, her long, manicured fingers pulling a slip from between the generous cleavage and she slid it into Quinlan’s chest pocket.

She let her hand linger against his sternum, trailing down the silk of his shirt. "We’re taking heavy handle on the main event. If you’re playing the chalk, Grim is the surest bet in the house. Five-to-one odds, guaranteed execution by the third round."

I felt an ugly, hot spike of annoyance flare in my chest, but I pushed it down.

Quinlan didn’t even push her away. He just flashed her a pant-melting smile that had her biting her bottom lip with a soft, catty mewl.

I jerked my hand out of his, my skin feeling too tight. But he held on, plucking the ticket out of his pocket with two fingers.

"And the redhead in the blood match?" Quinlan asked, voice smooth like it was coated in honey.

My anger lowered and I held my breath. Goddess let him be alright.

The woman giggled, leaning in close enough that her breath brushed his neck. "He’s having a real rough night. Took a heavy walloping in the qualifiers, barely holding out. It’s his last bout of the card. FTTD. He’s looking to get himself killed out there, but he’s stubbornly refusing to go down. Want to lay a prop on which minute he breathes his last?"