Even as the future crystalized in his mind, it faded away. There was a time when it would have meant everything, when he would’ve killed to make it happen. But that was before he’d met them. Dysfunctional and selfish beyond reason, they’d carved their names into his soul with razored words and acid dipped betrayals. But what true friend didn’t? He couldn’t leave them, and that proved the hateful truth of the bonds between them.

He wouldn’t, couldn’t, turn from them. The day would come when they left him, but he wouldn’t walk away until that final betrayal. They were a barbed hook sunk deep into his flesh, tying him to Primrose like a harpoon anchored a dying whale to the ship butchering it.

“You want to make me into a trained dog.” Ramona opened her mouth, but Cesare continued, his words as soft as an assassin’s footsteps. “You can’t make a wolf a dog.” Cesare’s eyes rested on Chris. “And you can’t turn a dog into a wolf. A dog doesn’t feel the hunt burning in its blood, it sold its wild for a warm bed and a scratch on the head. Or in this case, a dirty fuck and some paper.”

Chris’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair, body tensing as he started to surge to his feet. Raising its head, the wolf gave the fighter a brief look. The power of its stare drained the blood from Chris’s face, setting him back into the chair with a definitive thump.

“I’m not fighting for you or your money. I’m fighting because I want to fight, and when I’m done fighting, I’ll walk,” Cesare said.

Ramona looked between the men and the wolf, thoughts chasing each other across her face. She wanted to fight when she snapped her fingers, a weapon without cock or balls of its own. The world had never made him behave, and no slinky snake with a forked tongue would master him.

“As long as you keep winning, you can fight the way you want. Just don’t forget, if you go for blood, they’ll come for yours,” Ramona said before quickly moving the conversation along. “Chris is going to work on preparing you for the fight with Hog.”

“Lucky you. You get my fight, twice the money, and all the work I put into researching the bastard.” The fighter’s fingers dug into the chair, eyes glittering with hate.

“I think we covered that you don’t want a mouthpiece or cup, but we need to do something about your clothes.” Pushing forward, her words came quickly, heavy with experience. “You already have an image, homeless child, angry at the world, brutal and dark avatar of the streets. Caine come to take his pound of flesh from his brothers, dark sentinel of agony. You came off the streets with only your fists to feed you. You fight to live and live to fight.” Her eyes shone as she manufactured a fantasy, owning only a passing familiarity with the truth. “I want to get you a pair of distressed jeans, a black hoodie we’ll wash until it’s a weathered gray. We’ll keep your hood up and let them wonder. Are you ugly? Beautiful? Scarred? We won’t put work into hiding your face besides the hood, but we won’t come out and show them.”

They'd take new clothes and make them clones of the ones he already had. Why not just buy from the Good Will? Opening his mouth, Cesare slowly closed it. If they wanted to buy him clothes, he wouldn't stop them.

Caught up in her vision, she reached for her purse, the shopping gods calling her to worship. Being the devotee she was, she couldn’t turn away from their altar. Standing, she gave Chris a quick peek on the cheek. “I’m off. You boys be good.”

Cesare watched the woman leave, wavy brown hair swishing above her trim ass. He wondered how old Ramona really was. She’d taken him from Candy with an ease that spoke of long practice. Dealt with his shattering of her fighter gracefully, as if she’d known it would happen. The negotiation with the Governor had thrown her briefly before she’d rallied and championed Cesare’s cause. Everything after had fallen into place with mechanical precision.

“Looks even better naked, bent over in front you,” Chris said, the words breaking Cesare out of his trance. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll give you a taste soon.” Standing, the fighter grunted as pain speared through him. “Come on, I’ll show you were to work out.”

Moving slowly, face warped by pain at each shuffling step, the man led the way out of the room. Possessive in a way beyond civilized, the wolf cut in front of Cesare, separating him from the fighter.

The room wasn’t big; every foot in a hotel was money, dedicating it for a room few would use was a fool’s choice. Few people want to work out, and even fewer want to sweat and strain on vacation.

An all in one gym stood in the middle of the room while treadmills collected dust in front of the massive windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Snagging a chair, Chris set it against the wall before sitting down with a quickly cut off groan of pain. “Push this shit against the wall and clear yourself space to work.”

A half hour of work had the treadmills against the wall and the weight gym pushed into a corner. He'd cleared a space that was wide enough for him to use, if barely. The wolf slipped to the side of the room, taking a patch of sunlight as its own.

Relaxing, Cesare fell into the kata, the familiar movements heating his blood. Muscles and tendons loosened, stretching along bones, his breathing deepening and slowing. The kata lead him into himself. Each move a step down the spiral staircase of his mind, light, freeing, thought and needs fading as blessed darkness enfolded Cesare.

Thoughts flitted dragonfly like through the stygian void of his mind. They died in that darkness, unknown and uncared for. The serpent formed scale by golden scale before Cesare’s eyes, coils appearing in the deep places of his mind, its winding form crossing over, around and through his being. No place was free of its primal essence. Hot scales rustled through his conscious mind, down to the darkest sub-consciousness and into the depths of his soul. It was around him and within him, part of his core and outside his being. A mental construct and an objective reality, born of an atavistic reality deeper than solid matter and twisting morals.

No matter how deep he fell the wolf stayed with him, a shadow in his mind. Fey as the moon, as comfortable as the touch of silk, it was right in the way of being alone. Its hulking mass walking beside him or sleeping in his bed was as natural as breathing. A piece to a puzzle he didn’t know was missing, a note in a symphony he'd never noticed was absent.

He’d never wanted to share his mind, but the wolf was different. People judged, criticized, moralized, and condemned. Good and evil didn’t exist for the wolf, Cesare’s sadism was nothing, cruelty less than the breath it was born in. To the wolf, he simply was.

Hands dove, piercing the air, slicing space and dismembering flesh. Elbows smashed through emptiness with breaking force. Legs unfurled, stretching to the boundaries of his kingdom, stamping ownership in earth and air. This was his place, his territory, and within his reach, all was as he commanded. His whims were carved into the bodies of the weak that dared his realm of pain.

He was the oak tree that stood against the wind. The willow that bent in the storm, the rushing river that bored through the mountain. Each movement changed the landscape of his mind, contradictions immaterial in this place of quicksilver reality. All styles were one, as he was one, anger, serenity, rage, peace, strength, and weakness, he was all, each style merely reflected the facets of who he was. The wolf lunged and dipped, stalking his mind on its single-minded hunt. Golden instincts of an omnivore were overwritten by the killing call of a carnivore.

Minutes flew by unheeded and meaningless in the beauty of the trance. Naked aggression, violence in the raw, and unfathomable serenity, it was all and none of them.

“You can stop that shit now,” Chris said in disgust. Each word was a hammer blow against raging serenity, no matter the violence of the words, it was Cesare who ended the trance.

Sweat ran down Cesare’s face, dripping onto his hoodie. Hidden beneath the sweater, his shirt clung to his scarred body like a second skin. Facing the other fighter, Cesare met the man’s piggy eyes with cold neutrality. He knew Chris didn’t like him, but he’d hoped the man could be professional.

“How long have you been training?” Chris asked.

“About four months,” Cesare said, instinctively steadying his breathing from the long kata. As breath moved so did the mind, if it was high and fast, the mind would race uncontrollably. Slow and steady brought serenity to the core.

“It shows,” Chris said, lips turning up in a sneer. “I don’t know who taught you or if you got that off bad movies, but it's shit. You don’t have a style; you have a collection of moves. You should scrap that abortion and start fresh. But none of that will get you ready for Hog.” Levering himself up, Chris turned his back on Cesare.

“Where are you going?” Cesare asked to Chris’s back.

“Back to my room. I’m not wasting my time on a failure, you’re a lost cause.” Chris' words cut off as he kicked shut the door behind him, leaving only Cesare and the wolf in the room.

Shrugging, Cesare steadied himself before starting back on the kata. In the calm storm of his trance, Tamlin’s words fell like rain. “It’s not how many techniques you know. Knowing is not mastering. Each move is a weapon, better to master one than know hundreds. Better a master of a weapon then a collector of weapons.” The words burned as they settled into his mindscape.

He would take this time to practice the lessons carved into his bones, spend the hours learning the ins and outs of every weapon set into flesh and burned into meat. If he never learned another move, it wouldn’t matter. A samurai carried one katana with pride. A bow man loved his bow without mercy. There was no shame in mastering a way.

Hours bent and warped as Cesare stayed in the trance. His once gray sweater turned black with sweat, muddy brown hair plastered to his face as rivers of sweat ran down his face. Muscles burnt with exertion, pain fueling the raging calm of the trance.

“Looking good, tiger.” The words caressed along the side of the trance.

Cesare turned to the door, sight blurred from sweat and exhaustion. Ramona gave a slow, exaggerated clap as she smiled from the doorway. “Time for a break. How about you try on the clothes I bought?”

He eyed the clock as his mind moved over his body. Muscles cramped and twisted as sweat ran down his body in interlocking streams. He could push further, but he’d only hurt himself. Shaking his head, Cesare sent sweat flying in a spray as the wolf coming up behind him as he started for the door.

Cesare stopped in front of Ramona’s room. “Shouldn’t I take a shower first?”

Opening the door, she walked into her room, leaving him with no choice but to follow. “You can use my shower.” Looking over her shoulder, she smirked. “Don’t worry, I won’t ambush you … unless you ask nicely.”

Shaking his head, Cesare followed the exaggerated sway of her hips as they entered her bedroom. Littered with bags, the king size bed was an altar to the god of capitalism.

“You can use the shower; I’ve already set an outfit out for you to try on,” Ramona said, smile showing a few too many teeth for his comfort.

The wolf held back, letting Cesare go first before following behind him, keeping between Cesare and Ramona. He found the clothes laid out by the bathroom sink. Distressed jeans, well-worn and soft from hard use. Gray and washed out, the hoodie looked a lot like the one he was wearing, but that was the only thing it had in common. Thick and new, it was artfully made to look old and worn out.

Ten-inch combat boots stood proud and mean looking on the floor of the bathroom. His fingers ran over the soft leather of the boots; he’d never had new shoes before. This would a first for him. Taking only enough time to get clean in the shower, he was out and toweling off as he eyed the new clothes, anxiety cinching his stomach taught.

Tightening the laces on the boots, Cesare stood and looked at himself in the mirror. Muddy brown hair fell in waves around his shoulders, highlighting a face too hard and angular to be anything but ugly. The pants looked better than his old ones, but it wasn’t hard to look better than a pair held together with duct tape. The white shirt was softer than he was used to, and he took a moment to luxuriate in the feel of it against rough scars. Like the shirt, the gray hoodie was soft and full without the threadbare feel of his old one.

He should feel different; this was the first time he’d ever had new. He could feel the difference against his skin, harsh threads replaced with soft, caressing touches. But nothing had changed, he looked and he felt the same. A dry, bitter laugh filled the silent bathroom. He should’ve known new clothes wouldn’t change truth's deformed face.

They said clothes made the man, but they didn’t. A man was what was in his guts, not on his back. Cesare was the same person, just in a better pair of jeans. Clothes didn’t make a sinner into a saint, it just made evil pretty.

With a twisted smile, he opened the door to show off the clothes to Ramona. Still in the threshold, Cesare stopped, eyes locking on the bed. Clear of the bags that had cluttered it when he’d gone into the bathroom, Ramona was laid out across it. His eyes ran up jean clad legs, past firm thighs to toned hips. Her shirt was untucked, softening the outline of breasts while highlighting their firm shape. Strands of long, wavy hair framed Ramona’s face, giving her a wind tossed look.

Her eyes ran over his body with an almost physical touch. “You look good, tiger. How do you feel?” The inviting smile she gifted him with sent his thoughts pin wheeling into darkness.

“I don’t feel any different,” Cesare said.

The inviting smile faded as she came up on all fours, prowling across the bed until she was at the edge. Her shirt billowed open, revealing the tanned flesh of her breasts encased in lacy black. “People say clothes make a man, but its heart.” Tapping her chest, the shirt tightened, showing the shape of her breast. “That’s all you have. Even if you walk around naked or in your case rags, it’s still your heart that makes you who you are.” It was an eerie echo of his own thoughts.

Nodding, he turned away from her and started for the door. “Caine.” Looking over his shoulder, Ramona was up on her knee’s, thigh muscles standing out as her legs spread in a deliciously sinful manner. “The blue bags are yours.”

---

Worth 3 bucks? If so, maybe pick up a copy of Book 1 on Amazon. The Discarded

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