Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(10)

They stopped next to a line of boys, both older and younger than Valon, who were all waiting their turn in the Pit. None looked eager to face their opponent, and judging from the bruises already present, this wouldn’t be their first time.

Valon, shaking with fear, watched the end of the current fight, momentarily frozen—or transfixed—by the sheer amount of blood present. The scent of blood hung heavy in the air, coupled with sweat and anticipation.

There were only two in the center of the dirt floor—Valon had heard of there being more once—and only one was left standing, dark blood dripping from his mouth and at least a couple of his teeth missing. As the crowd cheered, he stumbled on his feet, almost seemed drunk as he stared down at the boy who lay in a heap, unmoving. He didn’t cheer his victory, but a dark gleam in his eyes burned itself into Valon’s mind.

Six more fights, each bloodier than the last, went on before Valon found himself at the front of the line. He was trembling so badly that he garnered the attention of the handler at the front who was waiting for his cue. Noticing Valon’s fear, he smirked, revealing two rows of silver capped teeth. Though he didn’t mean to, Valon shrank back, wishing there was a way out of this for him.

A bell sounded from a distance, but he could hardly hear it with the blood rushing in his ears. He could just see Bastian sitting high above the crowd, a glass of expensive liquor no doubt clutched in his right hand. His gaze shot to Valon, and when they locked, he smiled cruelly, moving to his feet.

“Fresh meat,” he called to the crowd, riling them up further. “And his opponent…”

A boy, at least six years older than Valon, stepped into the Pit, shirtless, and unlike the rest of the boys who had been brought forward before him, he looked eager for this. The handler, who’d still been smiling at Valon, gave him a shove, forcing him forward before he was ready.

Not expecting it, he pitched forward, landing on his hands and knees in the dirt and sand. He didn’t know much about fighting, having only been on the receiving end of his father’s fists and witnessing the abuse his mother suffered, but if there was one thing he knew, it was to stay on his feet.

On the ground he was more vulnerable, more likely to be kicked in the head, or worse.

He had no chance of winning this, Valon knew, but at least he would do this on his feet.

Pushing himself up off the ground, he eyed his opponent, trying to see what he was up against. The boy was a few inches taller and had at least fifty pounds on Valon’s smaller frame.

Despite having lived in this place for years now, he had never seen him, nor could he recall actually crossing paths with any of the boys here. He doubted they stayed in the old house, but since he had yet to leave the property, he had no idea whether Bastian had another house somewhere that housed them.

There was only one thing he was completely sure of as he balled his fists, lifting them in front of him. By the time this was over, he was going to hurt. Bad.

One second he was trying not to pass out from the adrenaline, the next a bell was ringing and the cheers of the crowd grew deafening, and before he could blink, the boy was on him, landing a hit to his face that made him see stars.

Valon didn’t have a chance to move away, not even enough time to lift his fists again. Blow after blow landed, pain exploding throughout his face, and after a particularly brutal punch forced the sensitive inside of his cheek against his teeth, blood poured into his mouth.

He tried to fight back, but only managed to cover his own head from the hits, trying to protect himself as best as he could from the fetal position he was in on the ground.

For one blissful moment, the hits stopped, and Valon made the mistake of dropping his arms, looking up at the boy looming over him. He saw the booted foot flying toward him, but he couldn’t stop it. More than that, he didn’t want to.

He welcomed the blackness that came after.

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Seven hours of blissful unawareness, and then pinpricks of agony hit him, jarring him from his peaceful slumber. Valon couldn’t remember ever having felt such pain. The drunken hits from his father had been bad, and he still vividly remembered the bruises he’d suffered afterward, but that was nothing compared to what he felt now.

He was alive, though he couldn’t say he actually enjoyed this fact very much, back in the barn with the dogs. Not sure how he’d arrived here since he didn’t remember much about the night before besides being beaten to a bloody pulp in the Pit, he didn’t question it. Carefully, he rolled over onto his back, almost thankful for the coolness of the hay.

It was almost nice, laying there, feeling the pulses shoot through his body. They hurt and it was almost too painful to breathe, but for a reason unknown to him at the moment, he found comfort in that.

Valon wasn’t sure how long he was there before Gjarper came into the barn, looking every bit of the enforcer he was. In all the years that he’d called this place home, while he might not have known everything about the structure of The Organization, he had picked up a few things along the way.

Mostly about Gjarper since that was who he spent most of his time around. It hadn’t been easy—Gjarper didn’t willingly talk to anyone—but most of what Valon knew he’d caught in passing. Unlike Bastian, who had a top spot, Gjarper did most of the dirty work that others were too afraid to do; he went after people who owed The Organization money and refused to pay. And even without the title of Boss, Gjarper had managed to inspire fear in others when only his name was mentioned.