Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(12)

“That,” Gjarper said, poking him in the center of his chest with a meaty finger, “is what you need to survive in this place. To everyone in this place, you’re mother was a whore, you’re father was a drunk, and you are a product of the two. Accept it. Either stand up and learn to fight like a man or lay there and die. What do you choose?”





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6




Pushing himself up on shaking arms, Valon held himself there for a few seconds, counting under his breath as he dropped down then repeated the movement. He’d been working out for the better part of two hours, pushing himself further than he ever had before. Ever since he’d been thrown in the Pit, besides the residual pain that clung to him even days after the bouts, he had changed physically just as he had mentally.

He didn’t have to step on a scale to know he’d put on weight. The muscles in his chest and arms had grown, his shoulders broader, and if not from catching a brief glance at his reflection once while walking through the house, he would have known just from the way people did double takes.

Not used to his new size, he still stumbled when he walked, and it hadn’t helped him in the Pit yet. But he was finally ready to help himself, after Gjarper had knocked him down that last time, giving up on him before Valon had even realized that he’d given up on himself.

But with him reentering that ring tonight, he refused to just stand there and accept the abuse. No, tonight, even if he was still beat to a bloody pulp, he was fighting back.

It wasn’t for Gjarper, even though he hoped he’d be there.

Valon needed to do this for himself. He needed to prove that he wasn’t as weak as people thought he was.

No matter what this fight yielded, when he walked out of the Pit tonight, he wouldn’t be the same person he was when he walked in.





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7




Soft whimpers carried over to Valon’s ears, and though he could barely muster the energy to open his eyes, the noise called to him and he couldn’t help but turn his head in that direction, blinking his eyes open.

He had grown accustomed to the dogs now that he was back in the kennels with them, and they had grown to accept him as well…as long as it wasn’t feeding time, then it was to each his own. Only once did he have to show one of them who was in charge, and that was because one of the men who was in charge of bringing Valon his food had thought it funny to toss it in with the dogs and make him fetch it.

They were fighting over a few steaks, but there were three, puppies in fact, who were trying to nose their way into the foray, hoping to partake of the food, only to be forced back as the bigger ones snapped at them and bared their teeth.

Valon’s first thought was to leave them to their fate, knowing they wouldn’t live long enough to see the ring of their own with the condition they were in. Even at his distance, he could see their ribs, stark against their fur. But something—the decent side of him—could not leave them to die this way.

Rolling over onto his stomach, Valon made his way over in that direction, boldly walking into the giant cage, not caring that he was back to being enemy number one while they were eating. Most of the men under Bastian’s charge were afraid to walk into the kennels, always having their guns at the ready with sticks to beat them with as well. Twice, Valon had seen two dogs put down just from fear of what these men had made them. He, on the other hand, didn’t mind their aggression, not anymore, and with his new life in the Pit, the pain of their bites barely fazed him.

Pain had finally grounded him. It made him more alert to his surroundings.

“Move,” Valon barked at them, giving a few a slight push when they wouldn’t move quick enough. Busht?r, a particularly vicious one, clamped down on his hand when it came too close to the bone she was gnawing on. He registered the feel of it, as Busht?r’s teeth broke his skin, but he only made a sound of frustration, using his free hand to grip her by the muzzle until she released him.

Finally, he made it to the back of the cage, crouching down in front of the three puppies. They were wary of him, scuttling back, though one was bolder than his companions were.

It came forward, small steps, its nose up as it sniffed the air, trying to scent him. It had ears that pointed straight up, a mixture of gray and white fur on its head, spreading down its back, with snow-white fur covering its belly.

Its eyes, though, were as pale as Valon’s. And just as sharp.

Valon took an instant liking to that one.

He could definitely see the Siberian husky in it, but he doubted it was purebred. It was far too big.

Not wanting to frighten it off, he waited a few moments before stretching out his hand, palm side up. He knew how best to act with them, and how he didn’t need to be violent to show his dominance. There was no need to force it to come, the moment his hand was out, the little hybrid came forward, nudging his hand with its nose.

The other two—both German Shepherds—though still wary, followed in its footsteps. Now he had three pups at his heels, all looking at him with tails wagging.

In the time it had taken him to enter the cage and get across it, the dogs were now done with their food, now looking for a way to take out their aggression. Not in the mood to play chew toy—despite his predilections—Valon scooped up the three pups, making his way back to his own sleeping place.