My throat closed around the piece of chicken, remembering what I’d done only an hour before. I’d broken into a home—complete with Christmas decorations in the window and a fire flickering in the hearth. I’d sneaked up the stairs on silent toes and stood over a woman sleeping soundly in her bed.

I’d stabbed her in the heart while her husband slept on.

Then, I left.

I choked, throwing the chicken away, staring at my hands. Traces of blood coated my fingers, glowing bright with damnation.

“Well done, Fox. Well done for killing your mother.”

“Fox?”

“Fox! Goddammit, stop!”

A fist to the jaw shattered the flashback, and I hurled myself at the stupid culprit. I’d kill them. I’d kill them for making me murder my mother.

“Fox!”

My vision cleared from blood-smeared thirteen-year-old fingers to a bulging eyed Oscar.

His hands clawed at mine around his neck, his feet dangled off the floor. The burn in my shoulders spoke of the weight I held almost unconsciously. It was so easy. I didn’t know why I fought so hard. This was all I was good for.

Death.

Oscar spat in my face. His warm spit landed in my eye, and I threw him to the side disgusted.

“Snap out of it.” He threw a crystal ashtray at my head. It bounced off my temple, knocking sense back into me.

I blinked, bringing into focus his torn shirt and bleeding lip. Fear stank around him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Backing away, I looked down at my hands—at the symbol III tattooed into my palms. How could I ever let myself get so weak?

Pain.

I need pain.

I needed deliverance. I needed an escape.

Turning on my heel, I bolted. Adrenaline pumped thick and fast, chugging my broken heart.

Bulldozing my way through the fighters on the floor of Obsidian, I already knew where I would go.

I didn’t look back.

Twenty minutes later, I screeched to a halt outside Dragonfly. If Obsidian was exclusive and upmarket—created for skilful fighters who wanted prestige—Dragonfly was its sinful baby brother. A place where a disclaimer had to be signed and lodged just in case you didn’t make it out alive.

My favourite place for medicine.

I’d found it purely by chance. When I moved to Sydney, I didn’t know anyone. Cast out of the only world I knew, I fumbled in society. With no guidance or rules, I had none of my usual tools to stay together.

The only way to keep my temper at a manageable level had been to ambush. Most nights I hid in dark alleys, just waiting for random, clueless prey to stumble upon my trap.

The moment they were close I taunted and teased, hurting them just enough for them to hurt me. Then I’d force myself to stop—to give them the winning hand. Every strike helped ease my pain, and I welcomed the throws.

Only once they’d given me enough to exist another day did I knock them out and run. Leaving them to be found by another—keeping my identity hidden thanks to the tricks I’d been taught by my owners.

For weeks it worked, until one night I picked a guy who owned the Dragonfly and he gave me the beating I’d been searching for. He tore into me like he channelled a fucking velociraptor. He cleared my head completely of the mess inside.

A fight was mere aspirin, whereas Poison Oaks was my morphine.

His fighting name fit him perfectly—built like a thousand-year-old tree, his arms were the size of trunks, and his temper was poisonous. No one pissed him off. They knew better.

Double parking my black Cayman, I jogged down the dark alley before taking a sharp left.

A glowing dragonfly was the only signal the club existed. No garish signs, no hint of existence. Just like Obsidian, both clubs worked on referral and secrecy.

Knocking on the door in the correct code sequence, I glared at the bouncer who cracked it open.

The gloomy, smoky world behind him set my teeth on edge. I needed to get in there and fight. Then maybe I could clear my head before searching for Zel.

To track her down and take her home like a kill that was rightfully mine.

“Poison Oaks? Is he here?” My voice lost its fake Australian accent and slipped into Russian. My eyesight pulsated with greys and whites, almost as if my vision clouded and fogged.

I hadn’t been this close before. Not since two years ago.

The bouncer held out his hand, pointing toward the back. Stepping aside, he let me pass, knowing not to touch me.

I didn’t say a word as I made my way through the heaving crowd, careful to keep a wide berth. The boxing ring in the centre of the club was the only fighting arena. Every discipline was allowed and the dark stains on the floor, along with the tattered rigging and ropes, spoke of battles won and lost.

My heart thudded faster, preparing for a fight.

I found who I needed sitting with a half-naked woman with fake breasts on his lap. His tanned skin and tattooed arms tensed, bouncing her weight like a pet or a child on his knee.

The instant he saw me, he froze. “Not tonight, Fox. I’m not up for your bullshit.”

It took everything in me not to slap the woman off his lap and haul him into the ring.

“Ten thousand. Give me everything you have.”

He shook his head, his bald scalp shining thanks to the neon lights in the shapes of dragonflies. The ceiling had been painted with a thousand of the fucking bugs, transforming the entire room into an insect ridden cage.

“I’m not in the mood to go to the hospital again, Fox. Fuck off.”

The woman giggled and kissed his cheek, rubbing her nipples against his groping hand.

The woman was tacky and cheap; my cock showed no interest in her fakery. Only Zel had power over that piece of my anatomy. She proved it still worked. Too well.

“I won’t touch you. You have my word,” I lied, but so what. I had to get him in the ring. My body felt like it would explode at any moment. I had to get this evilness out of me. I had to find my way back to the man I wanted to be and not the man I’d been trained to be.

I needed to be punished.

Poison’s brown eyes narrowed. “You expect me to believe that?”

“You can bind my hands. I don’t care.”  My eyes dropped to his fingers stroking the woman’s thigh. I knew how deadly they could be. I’d suffered pain. Great pain. Pain I wanted again.

After a never-ending minute, he sighed. “Fine.” Looking over my shoulder, he motioned to a large guy with a black goatee. “Get some rope and bind his wrists.”

The man nodded and disappeared into the crowd. He returned a moment later with a length of heavy-duty twine.

I was well-versed in the art of knots and rope. It was a perfect weapon: silent, portable, undetectable.

“Hold ‘em out.” He chewed loudly on some gum, waiting for me to obey.

It took a lot to spin around and present my wrists. My jaw locked as I deliberately and obediently held the submissive position.

Looking over my shoulder, I demanded, “Don’t touch me. Just wrap the rope and tie it tight.”

“Dude, how the fuck am I not supposed to touch you?” He popped his gum, glaring at me like I was an idiot.

Touch me and see what happens, cocksucker.

“Do as he says, Geoff. You don’t want to know what happens otherwise.” Poison Oaks shifted the woman off his knee and stood to his impressive six foot four height.

I kept my eyes locked with his, trying hard to ignore any quick touches as Geoff bound my wrists. My heart raced as the twine rubbed against my skin and pulled taut.

Once the knot was tight, he mumbled, “Done.”

Poison cocked his head at the ring. “Come on then, you psycho. I don’t have time for this bullshit.” Together we moved toward the ring. He added, “You really need some therapy. This isn’t the kind of shit you should need.”