Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(11)

Valon could only imagine the things he’d had to do to inspire that kind of fear.

Gjarper didn’t waste time with pleasantries. Removing his shirt, he tossed it on the ground, and for the first time, Valon got a good look at the tiger emblazoned on his chest. It had incredible detail, from the snarling head to the way its claws looked like it was ripping through the skin of his chest.

“On your feet,” he said, his word lacking any real emotion.

Valon struggled to comply, wanting only to remain curled on the ground in his misery. The pain of his sore body made it nearly impossible to do anything more, but Gjarper refused to let him stay there. After last night, and the brutal way in which he’d been beaten, that had been enough to cool most of Bastian’s anger, but he was nowhere near satisfied. It seemed that, from this point forward, Valon would remain in the Pit, even if he ultimately died there.

But whether he lived or died, Gjarper wanted to give him a fighting chance, and that meant working through the agony he was in.

On weak arms, Valon pushed to his feet, his knees buckling slightly under his own weight. He might have thought the beatings he’d sustained from Ahmeti were harsh, but nothing compared to the brutality he’d suffered the night before.

Gjarper, who was still frowning, shook his head as he circled Valon, like he might have been looking for anything noteworthy about him. He could have saved him those few seconds. There was nothing to see.

“Make a fist.”

Unlike the rest of him, his hands were mostly damage-free since he had been unable to get a hit in. He did as instructed, holding one up, but Gjarper slapped it down, the sharp sting making him yelp in surprise.

“Don’t tuck your thumb unless you want to break it.”

Gjarper showed him the proper way to do it, the thick scars and calluses of his hand speaking to his own life of fighting. Valon mimicked what he saw, bracing for the pain of another hit in case he had managed to do this wrong as well, but when the hit didn’t come, he could only assume that he’d done right.

“Lesson one. The minute you enter that ring, you go in with the intent to kill.”

The words but I don’t want to kill anyone were on the tip of his tongue, but he gritted his teeth, keeping the words at bay. He knew how he must look to someone like Gjarper. He didn’t want to seem any weaker than he already was.

“Put it out of your mind,” he said fiercely, his gaze intent on Valon, as if he could read his thoughts. “If you don’t kill them, then they will kill you. You were spared last night only because Bastian called it before he could finish you off. Remember this.”

How easy it would have been to die last night…and there was nothing Valon could have done about it. He’d been so easily subdued that even those who hadn’t known the true reason behind why Bastian had ultimately forced him into the Pit, at least understood that he wasn’t put in there for his skill or lack thereof.

It was punishment, pure and simple.

“Lesson two,” Gjarper went on before Valon had a chance to respond. “Pain is the only friend you’ll have in this place.”

At the reminder, the pain flared up all over again, making its presence known. He couldn’t ever imagine that he would get used to this, but it was too soon to tell.

“Now, put your fists up and come at me with the intent to kill.”

Valon expected him to put his own fists up, to prepare himself for whatever Valon might do, but he only stood there, hands relaxed at his sides. There was no fear in him. He didn’t even seem to see Valon as a threat at all.

Waiting for a heartbeat, Valon sprang into action, thinking to catch Gjarper off guard and gain the upper hand. Before he could even swing his fist, Gjarper had him on the ground, that same look of disinterest on his face. At least he wasn’t enjoying it like the boy from last night.

“On your feet. Try again.”

This time, Valon didn’t hesitate, he just came up swinging, attacking what was closest to him. But each sporadic swing was blocked with quick efficiency to the point that Valon tired himself out.

Breathing heavily, Valon raised his hand out in front of him, silently asking for a moment to catch his breath, but Gjarper ignored this, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and dragging him to his feet.

Valon tried to ward off whatever hit would come next, but Gjarper was far bigger and stronger.

“Is this where you want to die, boy?” he asked, applying pressure to Valon’s neck, nearly cutting off his oxygen.

Shaking his head as best he could, Valon denied this though the idea of dying had crossed his mind before Gjarper had come in here. He didn’t realize how much he actually wanted to live until this very moment.

When the hold at his neck suddenly disappeared, Valon crumpled, wheezing as he dragged in air to breathe. Gjarper crouched down, waiting until Valon stopped choking and was looking up at him with watery eyes before he spoke.

“You’re weak, but born to Ahmeti and a whore, I expected no less.”

Whore. The word made his blood boil, and not for the first time, an all-consuming rage overwhelmed him. He lurched forward, not caring that he would be hit and there was nothing he could do about it, but he would not allow Gjarper, or anyone else, to disrespect his mother. Not anymore.

Gjarper shifted back just a fraction, just enough that he didn’t get hit, but he came back with a palm to Valon’s chest and a slap to his face. The hit wasn’t painful. It wasn’t done in retaliation, but more of trying to get his attention.