She was older than Candy, caught in that nebulous area of not old but no longer young. Wavy brown hair fell past her shoulders, softening her face and warming dark eyes. Her tight black dress accented firm breasts and a trim waist, long legs flashing glimpses of pale thighs.

Candy was a hard-bitten whore, willing to suck and fuck for money. You drop her into any city, and she’d survive, even if she had to slit throats to do it. This woman had been there and done that. But she’d gotten good enough that she didn’t just fuck your body, she fucked your mind. You didn’t lose a few hundred to this one; you gave her your paycheck and wished you could give more. She was a shark to Candy’s barracuda.

A smile bloomed across the woman’s face as she watched him trace her body with his eyes. “Like what you see, tiger?” she said, running her eyes over his body with appreciation. “You’re the one they’re calling Caine. I heard you had a hell of a showing last night.” Her eyes swept over Candy before settling back on Cesare. “You don’t have to walk this alone.”

“He’s not, he’s got me,” Candy bit off, hands curling into claws.

“You don’t even know what the wraps are for. Did you even get him a cup? Or a mouth guard?” the woman asked, staring Candy down. “You’re an amateur, the only thing you're good at is spreading your legs. A survivor, not a fighter, you’d do anything for another minute of life. What do you know about a man who stands for what they believe in, no matter the cost?” Holding Candy captive with her eyes, the words cut and sliced to the bone.

Reaching into her cleavage, the woman pulled out a thick wad of bills, thumbing through them before holding the mass out to Candy. “Four large, walk away.”

Hesitating a bare second, Candy snatched the money, making for the door without a backward look. Cesare watched the pixie woman walk without a shred of anger. They’d made no promises, it was only ever an agreement of mutual exploitation. Candy made the same play Cesare had a thousand times before. Money in the hand was worth more than any dice roll. She might have made more sticking with him, but this was sure, that was maybe.

The woman watched with Cesare as Candy left before facing Cesare with a wide smile. “You know the difference between an investor and a loser?”

As quick as lightning, his emotions shifted to the new threat. Thick anger burned through his veins, a biting acid that tightened muscles into knots, violence chained by fraying threads. He wasn’t a dog to be bought and sold. Staring up at the woman, his center of balance flowed into readiness, feet digging into the floor. Her face shattered open, white splinters of bone ripping through torn muscle. The image flashed through his head as power built. “No,” Cesare said.

A tightening around the eyes betrayed her tension as she faced his black rage. She knew how close to the edge she skirted. But she had her fighter only a few feet away. She was betting if Cesare lost it, he wouldn’t be able to do much. “Knowing the difference between short- and long-term investment. If it's short, you cut and run at the first sign of loss. Long term prospects need money to grow, your eyes stay on the stars, don’t mind the road.”

“And you think I’m going to pay off?” Cesare asked, some of the rage leaking out of his body as the image of her shattered face lost its sharp focus.

“I’ll make my money back by the end of the night,” she said, smiling with satisfaction. “If you’ll let me be your manager?”

“Why didn’t you pay me to cut Candy lose?”

Looking him over, she met his eyes. “You wouldn’t have taken it. You would've stuck it out with her, that’s the man you are.”

Nodding, Cesare agreed with her. Candy had brought him to the fights and while it had never been anything but convenient, he wouldn't turn his back on her without good reason. It had only ever been money, and he’d never thought it was anything else, but even in business there was honor.

“She was giving me a place to stay and three meals a day.” The question was implicit in the statement.

Her face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Me and Chris have a room, I’ll make sure you get your own next to us. I manage all my fighter’s meals, so that won’t be a problem.” She looked over her shoulder at her fighter. “Chris, come on over and meet my newest fighter.”

Chris had watched the exchange, tense and ready to rush Cesare if he got uppity. Standing, the man was about six feet and the kind of big that made other men think before they opened their mouth. Lifting the flimsy plastic chair, he’d chosen a cheerful blue one, he walked over with the easy grace of a warrior, each step balanced and smooth like a dancer with purpose. Dark green shorts hugged his massive thigh muscles, his six-pack abs and sculpted body gleamed with a thin layer of sweat. Tight, compact wraps wound around his hands, turning weak flesh into hammers of bone.

The man set his chair a few feet from Cesare. Slipping from between them, the woman took up a spot behind her man. With easy familiarity, she ran her hand across sweat streaked shoulders, massaging into the muscles. “Damn Ramona, you always pick strays.”

“I seem to remember taking you from some poisonous bitch a few years ago,” Ramona snipped back, her smile taking the bite out of the words.

Chris rolled his eyes even as he sighed in pleasure under her experienced hands. Looking between them, Cesare quirked an eyebrow in question. “You already have a fighter, what happens if we match up?”

Laughing, Chris looked back at Ramona as she held her own laughter behind a condescending smile. “It’s not against the rules to have more than one fighter. Usually, I have a stable of fighters with me. It just turned out that Chris was the only one available for this one.”

Chris grinned at Cesare. “I’m the main event, you’re the new meat. They’ll put you out first to get the locals worked up. That’s why they set you up with those guys' last night, so you could knock-um down and draw the crowd in. They’re all buzzed about ‘Caine’.” Chris snorted in amusement. “You’d have to cut down the others to face me. That’s not going to happen. You did good, but these guys are the real deal.” Cesare got it. He was the meat, and they were the tigers.

Ramona smiled down at Chris, pride shining in her eyes. “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about … sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”

“Caine,” Cesare said as amusement flowed over the bond with the wolf. Why not take their joke and make it his own? They can only hurt him if he didn't claim it as his own.

Looking over at Cesare, she picked over her words with the delicacy of a woman used to dealing with the barbed egos of fighters. “That was just a joke from the Governor, a play on the outcast theme. You don’t have to keep it; we can come up with something else. Something .…” Groping for the words, Ramona looked at Chris for help.

Taking up the thread, Chris stepped into the silence. “Less pretentious, less like a bitch trying to sound tough.”

Cesare felt the pull of the razor smile that stretched across his face. “I’ll keep it.”

Shaking her head, Ramona swiftly decided it wasn’t worth a fight. “The guys your fighting tonight are part of the circuit. Candy was local talent; her job is to round up anyone in the area who wants to fight. They bring in the crowd and keep the in-house betting hot. That’s why they set you up last night, so people will bet on you tonight. They’ll rake in the money when you get taken down. The real fighters are here to bring in the internet bets, people who follow the circuit.” She paused, caressing hands down Chris’s arms, kneading muscles with practiced grace. “You're just local talent, don’t do anything stupid. When you go down, stay down. This is about staying in shape and ready for the circuit, don’t let pride get you fucked beyond saving.”

Chris cut into the silence. “When you’re picking your teeth up off the floor, stay there. You got promise, don’t lose that by measuring cocks with fighters.” Chris relaxed back with his point made. “Ramona, why don’t you work on the kid?”

Hands slipping off Chris’s shoulder, she stepped away from the fighter. Gifting Cesare with an inviting smile, hips swaying with promise, Ramona came at him. Fear raced through Cesare, quickly buried under an avalanche of twisting viciousness. He didn’t want her to touch him, didn’t want anyone to touch him. Jagged black ice froze across his mind, crackling as lethal violence spread poisoned tendrils, a low growl of warning rumbling from the wolf.

It was low for the wolf, only the barest of warnings, but it thrummed through the air, a base note that sent bones vibrating in response. It was unlike any sound Cesare had heard, conjuring images of fresh blood thrown across grass, brutal power bared in front of babes, slow death on a moonless night. Primordial in its birth, it predated reasoning creatures, a bared threat more potent than words.

Ramona stumbled back, color draining from her face as she reached behind her to grip Chris’s shoulder. Not that he was any better. His face turned sickly with terror, horror gripping his guts. The rest of the fighters and their woman shrank away from the sound, huddling into their chairs. Skittering back, Rocky’s back hit the wall with a fleshy, wet sound, his gun drawn and held ready at his side.

It was easy to dismiss the quiet, ebony animal as a large dog, but that didn’t make it true. The beast was sure and certain death, inescapable and unconquerable. Cesare spoke into the crypt like silence. “I don’t like being touched.”

Nodding, Ramona’s voice squeaked out. “No touching. Got it.”

It was a long time before the others started talking to each other again. It was even longer before Rocky put his gun back in his holster. Ramona and Chris kept their mouths shut, only shooting quick looks at Cesare and the wolf. The unsure set to their shoulders, speaking to a sudden realization. Cesare didn’t care if they walked out on him, he’d have the wolf. They were just the latest in a long line of people making money off his ass.

“It’s time. Caine, your front of the line,” Rocky said. It wasn’t just the wolf that threaded his eyes with caution. Rocky had heard what Ramona had said to the kid, but she hadn’t been there. She hadn’t seen the boy stand in the cage like a silent sentinel of agony, disfiguring flesh with artistic ease, grotesque pleasure swirling around his starved body. Rocky knew where his money was going.

The other fighters cleared a path for Cesare and the wolf. Waiting until he’d passed before falling into his wake with even the closest a good distance back. It gave the impression that Cesare was alone, and that was a truth deeper than bone. His eyes moved to the wolf stalking at his side, amending the thought with a grin, not quite alone.

Rocky opened the door, forcing Cesare to walk out first. Sound rose around him, a swarm of rats snapping, clawing, burrowing into his flesh, a sea of insanity. Praise, insults, encouragement, and condemnation, assaulted him from every side, running together like wet shit, it was nothing but the ravings of a mad dog strung out on PCP.

Sinking into himself, Cesare drowned in the trance. Unconsciously, his center of balance shifted, walk transforming into a long-legged prowl mirroring the wolf next to him. Heat and desire spilled into his body, heart pounding out the oldest song known to man, of war and slaughter. Blood flowed cool and clear through his veins, muscles loosening and stretching with easy power. The world faded, the animal that bayed and screamed around him nothing but noise and meat. While those things in his reach tightened into focus with hard edged clarity.

The cage was open when he reached it. Pleasure pulsed through him as Rocky locked him in. Walking to the middle of the cage, he waited as a furious storm of sound crashed down on him. Needy for blood, the beast roared its desires to the heavens, begging the gods of slaughter for their blood-soaked bounty.

From inside his hood, he watched his victim enter the cage. Clean shaven with short hair styled within an inch of its life and laughing blue eyes, he had the confidence of a man who never took life seriously. Cut with corded muscle like Cesare, he didn’t bulk, he just got harder.

Gliding across the stained concrete, the man had a light step, balance shifting from foot to foot. This wasn’t a brawler; he wouldn’t move in and stand bang with Cesare. This was a dancer, a fighter that moved in and out, taking their opponent to pieces with lightning quick punches and kicks, a technician.

The moment bloomed in his soul, its fullness descending on Cesare. The golden serpent surrounded him, its song of rustling scales vibrating his bones with cruel eagerness. Heat pulsed through his body, hot and welcome as it burned with a need for blood.

Darting into his bubble, the man closed the distance, throwing a quick jab at Cesare. Ducking his head, Cesare moved out of the way and into the path of the real attack. Sneaking into his blind spot, the punch slammed into Cesare’s face. Pushing through the jarring impact, Cesare’s own punch nimbly wove through the man’s guard, cracking into his face with a vengeance.

Side stepping, Cesare stayed in the pocket, claiming the man’s blind spot. Cesare wouldn’t, couldn’t, let the man dictate the pace of the fight. Given enough time, the man might find a way to win. Cesare had to push the man into the fight he didn’t want. Make him face Cesare close and tight, where they’d have to bleed to win. The moment pulled him to his opponent, shaping his movements with the sureness of fate.

Thinking quick, the man let loose with a punishing low kick, trying to force Cesare back. Stepping into the kick, Cesare grunted as he took the blow on his thigh.

Cesare’s knee shot forward, ramming into the fighter’s middle. The man’s lips stretched in a rictus of pain at the tearing impact against hardened abs. Collapsing, Cesare gathered power from his coiling body, his elbow piercing down into the man’s thigh. Torn from the man’s flesh, a snarling scream lanced the air, muscle spasmed, paralyzing pain shooting up through the man’s leg. Falling, eyes flaring with hate, the man clutched for Cesare. If he was going down, he was taking Cesare with him.

Cesare let the man grab him, using the impulsive move to bring him inside the fighter’s guard. His own hands went to the back of the man’s head, clenching with punishing force. Terror ran stark through the man’s eyes as he realized too late what his gambit had bought him. Knees rocketed up into the man, bludgeoning his chest and groin.

Hard muscle bruised and tore under the assault, soft tissue rupturing at the spearing force of Cesare’s bony knees. Pushing against Cesare’s shoulders, the man found he couldn’t get away. There was no retreat with only one leg, no leverage to the weak punches the fighter bombarded Cesare with.

Cesare felt every tear and rip that his knees opened on the guy, hardened muscle turning to sloppy meat. The snapping of bones filled Cesare with dark glee as his knees wormed through ravaged flesh.

Stepping back, Cesare let the man drop. Their fight had been an intimate, brutal embrace, neither taking more than a step from the center. The bastard father to sex, violence was the true love of man, fighting as arousing as fucking. Curled up into a ball of agony, coughs wracked the man, sprays of crimson tainted spit hitting cement. With broken ribs and bruised organs, the man would need a hospital. The Kundalini basked in the blaze of pleasure that burned through Cesare, its scales heating under unrelenting flame.

The animal that ruled this pit of stench and pain roared its approval at Cesare’s offering. The baseball bat wielding men skirted around Cesare before closing in on the man and helping him up. This was one of the regular fighters, and that bought them a care the throwaways hadn’t earned.

Cesare’s washed out grey hoodie was pulled up over his head, face shadowed from the crowd as he claimed the middle of the cage. The other fighters needed to believe Cesare was invincible, a breaker of men. That mystique would brutalize their insides, worry at self-confidence, make them hesitate for a crucial second.

That was why he didn’t stretch his leg to relieve twisting pain. The man had landed more than just a kick, being close meant being vulnerable. Cesare’s face was on its way to looking like hamburger with a matching chest of black and blue. But an image of unstoppable and unwavering savagery would buy him a few seconds. In the turning of a second, a fight was won or lost.

The cage opened as the beast howled its thirst for more. To sate its hunger, the next piece of diseased human stepped into the cage. Muscled and square, he wasn’t any taller than Cesare, but he was a lot wider. Spandex shorts tight as a second skin clung to grotesquely over-muscled thighs. Bare toes flexed against dusty cement with every footfall as the boy made for him. Cesare’s eyes locked on the man’s cauliflower ears. Lumpy and misshapen, they were all Cesare needed to know about the man’s style.

Maimed and warped, every fighter was butchered by their style, in the way of a man cutting a piece of steak off the bleeding hide of a cow. This man was cruelly shaped into a wrestler, from the bulky body to the explosive power underpinning every shift of stance.

Moving forward, the man ducked his head, muscles bunching as he lowered his center of gravity. The only way for the fighter to win was to get close, walking into the firestorm. Keeping his hands down, Cesare kept his eyes on the man as he made his way forward. Each step was solid and sure; this man wouldn't get caught in a sudden rush he couldn’t control. Cesare slid his feet wider, grounding his stance.

It was written in the moment. The man was stronger, bigger, and more experienced. If Cesare wanted to win, he couldn’t get into a wrestling match with him. The golden serpent’s coils shifted in a dry susurration as the flaming thoughts caressed its scales.

He was already moving when the wrestler's foot came down in the zone. If the wrestler wanted to get close, then he’d let him, and make him pay for every inch with broken bones and torn flesh. Stepping into the man’s rush, Cesare bent his legs, pulling power from his core, body exploding as force was realized. The elbow was a blur, tearing through the wrestler's inexperienced guard, hitting his chin and carving a trench of ripped flesh up his face. The man’s head rocketed backward in a spray of blood.

Cesare’s knee flashed up, ramming into the fighter’s rock like stomach. Twisting his body, Cesare’s core screamed with power as it poured into the side swiping elbow, tearing into the side of the wrestler's head. The elbow sliced across his face, shattering his nose in passing. Desperately, the wrestler lunged forward, his shoulder taking Cesare in the stomach as the wrestler’s hands clamped around Cesare’s waist with bruising force.

It was a classic take down. Only Cesare wouldn’t be hitting mats but brutal concrete, and you didn’t bounce back after being blasted into the concrete. Leaping up, Cesare arced his body outward, core muscles stretching, kinetic energy saturating at the impossible back bend. Snapping forward, his legs and body came together in a blur of force. Power shot from his core, a tsunami of malicious violence born in wet muscle and tortured days. His elbow was a warhammer, cracking the shoulder joint of the wrestler. Cartilage broke, bone shattered, ligaments tore, and tendons snapped, his elbow exploding into hardened meat. A scream more felt than heard resonated through the air. Instantly going slack, the arm went dead, torn from its moorings, nerves firing uselessly with agony.

Shock and pain ravaged the wrestler, killing the take down. Getting his feet under him, Cesare slid to the side, grabbing the deadened arm. Mouth open in a horrified scream, the wrestler swung a wild haymaker at Cesare. There was no style to the punch, only a wild need to stop the tortured hell spiking through his mind. Slipping under the arm, Cesare twisted and pressed his back into the wrestler.

Cesare gathered power from his legs and hips, dropping his center of gravity low, using his body as the pivot point in a classic judo throw. Going airborne, time slowed, agony waiting with baited breath as he fell in seconds of crippling perception. The impact was lost in the roar of the maddened thing. It wasn’t a wrestler any longer, just meat, beaten, tenderized, and bleeding.

Straightening, Cesare walked back to the center of the cage as the black shirts flowed around him. If the boy was lucky, he’d be able to use that arm someday, maybe. All this skittered along the moment that held Cesare. The man had come into his cage and threatened him. He was lucky he was leaving at all.

Cesare’s tongue moved across his mouth, checking teeth for cracks or looseness. That last haymaker hadn’t been a love tap. His face was already swelling as blood flooded flesh, engorging tissue, matching bruises forming along his stomach from the boy’s takedown. Cesare was racking up an impressive amount of damage with just two fights.

The cage was pulled closed, locking behind Chris. The fighter made no move to close the distance, calculating eyes sweeping over Cesare. Second by second, Cesare's face was deforming, flesh swelling as blood poured into ruptured tissue. Stiff and unresponsive, his leg was fucked from the earlier kick. The deep damage along his core would slow him down and cut the power he could draw on. The crowd couldn’t see it, but Chris would. He’d notice the stiffness of his stance, the way his feet shifted along the floor, and the set of his shoulders. It added up to one fact, Cesare was long in the tooth and Chris was fresh.

Gliding forward, Chris kept his hands up and ready. Slipping into Cesare’s bubble, Chris let loose with a quick snap kick. Compacting his body, Cesare absorbed the kick and stepped into the pocket. Unleashing a barrage of jabs, most impacted along the hardened muscle and bone of the man's guard. Nothing more than irritants, distracting beestings designed to throw Chris off.

Wilting under the offensive, Chris stepped back, needing room to let loose the big guns. The moment crystallized into sharp relief. Surging forward, Cesare sunk his knee into the man’s tensed abs. A side swiping punch blasted through Cesare’s guard, ringing his bell. Cesare reached for Chris’s head, hoping for a clench. Placing his foot against Cesare, the fighter push kicked Cesare back and out of reach.

Dancing back, Chris kept his guard up and eyes on Cesare. Slipping to the side, worn sneakers rasped across the dirty floor as Cesare claimed the middle of the cage. Chris tracked him as they took each other’s measure. The Kundalini was a golden strip of hot metal sliding through his mind, never waking, but restless in its sleep. Blood lust and need danced across its scales in tongues of white hot flame. The sound of its scales burrowed into his bones, plucking them into singing notes, a benediction to Hecate’s bloody Hounds of madness.

Sprinting into the bubble, Chris rushed at Cesare. Hip leading, Cesare unfurled a hook kick, taking Chris in the side, folding him over. Ribs held for a moment before giving under brutal force, snapping like slats in a fence caved in by a sledgehammer.

Deformed hills and valleys covered Chris' side, skin stretched tight over protruding lumps. Despite or because of the high price Chris had already paid, he wasn’t giving in. Cesare met Chris’s charge, fists exploding into the man’s side, targeting broken ribs with ruthless precision. Bones squirmed under his fists, meat tenderizing under calloused, ugly hands.

Raining down punches, Chris went to town on Cesare’s face, breaking through his guard over and over, intent on blinding, maiming, or knocking him out. Each blow rocked Cesare’s sight, the world roiling and shaking around him, the man in front of him blurring before snapping back into sharp focus. Blind viciousness kept Cesare working at Chris’s ribs in a desperate bid to break the man in front of him.

Cesare’s knee burst up into Chris’s groin, hitting the fighters cup. Chris folded forward under the force, his face the perfect target. Twisting, Cesare sent an elbow into the side of Chris' head. The orbital socket shuddered, eye blacking out under the blow. Unable to see, Chris swept his hands out, hoping to grab ahold of Cesare and buy time.

Stepping back into the fighter’s guard, Cesare let loose with a series of powered jabs. Strength started in the feet, flowing up through legs, hips compounding that stream into a river, core twisting into every punch, a typhoon blasting into Chris’s face with bone breaking force. Blind and crippled, Chris broke, retreating under the punishment of the avatar of an unholy god. Cesare wouldn’t let him go, stalking him across the cage, laying down the hate.

Tenderized into a bleeding mass of hamburger, eyes hiding under blood engorged tissue and weeping cuts, lips fat and sloppy, dripping blood in streams off his chin, Chris shuddered, flesh rippling as his body started shutting down. Cesare twisted with his core and hips, his kick slicing through the air, catching Chris in the stomach, folding the boy up. Pulling his leg back, Cesare let Chris slump to the ground, a mewling thing of pity, a monument to the one true sin, weakness.

Standing over the boy, Cesare waited for the black shirts. He’d beaten and broken three children. Shattered their bodies and savaged their flesh, carved his supremacy across failed meat. Burned and incised his name in their souls. They’d never forget his name or their time together. He’d birthed them anew, maimed them into caricatures of who they’d been, obscene mockeries of the physical perfection they'd been.

Creeping around him, the black shirts carried Chris away as Cesare stood in the moment. He let the bully boys enter his kingdom, his permission the only thing that prevented bloody vengeance for breaking his borders. Each move of their bodies flowed into him, shaping the moment with their presence. A constant litany of moves and countermoves danced through Cesare as the moment shifted and transformed around him.

They scurried out of his bubble, carrying Chris in their arms. Only when they left the cage, and it was wholly his, did the moment collapse into Cesare. Peace and clarity faded like blessed shadows under an unforgiving sun, the monster he’d pleasured with bloody offering assaulting him with crazed roars.

Smiling, Rocky held the cage open. Despite the wolf’s outward serenity, the bond stretched and deformed under the weight of its primal emotions, pride, pleasure and a bone deep satisfaction for the carnage of a being taking its place through slaughter. Deeper, with a predator’s edge, the feelings resembled human emotions in the way a butter knife was like obsidian forged in the earths flame, perfectly sharp and lovingly devoted to murder.

They’d thought he was sweet meat, a toy to play with, something to hurt for pleasure and profit. Nothing but weakness and failure. For their disrespect, he’d crippled them. No pity stirred Cesare’s dead heart; the shark didn’t pity the dolphins it butchered.

Cesare staggered as pleasure shouldered the pride aside in an almost sexual wave, pouring lava like down the bond with the wolf. The creature hadn’t enjoyed the fight; it had gloried in the naked aggression with unabashed glee. Cheered as he broke them, thrilled at Cesare's display of dominance. The simple emotions swept the question of right and wrong away, too pure for the fickle winds of morality.

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If this story seems worth 3 bucks, maybe pick up a copy of Book 1. The Discarded

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