Valon: What Once Was (Volkov Bratva Novella)(17)

“I’m glad I have at least one friend here,” Valon said truthfully and gave a reluctant, but genuine smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Fatos headed for the door but paused when he was on the other side of it. He glanced back at Valon with a playful smile, but his eyes were guarded. “I was sure you were going to lose like last time when you stepped into the Pit tonight. My father didn’t let me hear the end of it after I lost his money.”

Valon wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he just watched him walk away.

____

Valon lived to see another day and so did Loki, but that didn’t mean that nothing had changed from the night before to the present.

Everything had changed.

Valon had two days of healing, and then he was back in the ring, fighting for his life as much as he was fighting for Loki’s. Now that Bastian knew how to get to him, he used that as ammunition to get what he needed from him, and it worked. Before Loki, Valon had lost the majority of his fights—after Loki, Valon didn’t lose one.

Fighting better and earning more money for Bastian did have its advantages. He was no longer regulated to the kennels and had been given a room in the bigger house. It wasn’t much to look at really—just a twin bed that barely fit Valon’s towering frame, a couple of blankets, and a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Bastian had ordered that Loki needed to stay in the cage with the others, but for once, Valon didn’t have to fight for the right to keep his companion. It was actually Gjarper who came to his defense, arguing that since he’d fought better after his arrival, he should be allowed to keep him. Valon might not have heard this argument himself, but when Loki was in his room one night after he’d gone a round in the ring, wagging his tail in happiness, Valon had just assumed.

This went on for four years. He fought, he won, and he went to his room. In that time, he had changed, not just physically—he had grown several inches, nearly towering over everyone but Gjarper, his hair was shaggier, the ends nearly reaching his shoulders, and his body had went from that of a half-starved boy to a man’s—but mentally. He had learned to shut it all down. When he was in the ring, he lived in that moment. He did what he needed to do. When he was alone in his room, he wasn’t as successful with that tactic.

Silence.

That was the difference between the ring and his room. In the former, there was the crowd, the man he was fighting, everything around him was making noise constantly, but when he was in his room, there was only silence, forcing him to think about it, no matter if he didn’t want to or not.

Fatos remained close, and unlike the first time when they had been reunited, there was a difference with him as they both hovered beneath the spotlight that was Bastian. Sure, Fatos got most of the favor since he was the son of a renowned member of The Organization, but it was to Valon that most gave their respect.

Over the years, he had garnered the respect he had always craved, thanks to his time in the Pit and his now legendary skill. Since his first win, he hadn’t returned to the barn, and now that people knew what he was capable, the disdainful looks ceased and no one dared to threaten him.

It was as if he was an entirely different person, though he didn’t feel it.

No, that wasn’t true. He could feel the difference in him.

He smiled less. He wasn’t prone to jokes and antics as he had been. And when he took a moment to himself in the middle of the night, he found that he was consumed with a rage he couldn’t force away as he had before. He didn’t know when he had become such an angry person, nor did he really like who he was, but he did like the benefits that the new him got him.

More importantly, he was no longer afraid to enter the Pit and do what needed to be done. For Bastian, there was no going too far. He just let him fight until he was spent and could barely lift his arms. It was doubtful that his fights were even bid on anymore since his competency had been spoken of far and wide.

If he had to guess, then Valon thought the men who were forced onto the dirt with him were meant to die because even when he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away long enough to just end the fight with his opponent unconscious. No, he made sure they ceased to exist.

What would Galina think of you?

That question often plagued him when he was coming down from the high that was hurting others, but before the idea that she was ashamed of what he had become could consume him, he needed only to think of one thing to get past it.

Galina was dead now, and she wasn’t thinking about anything.





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9




Valon was lying on his back, hands stacked beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling, letting the pain in his hands calm him. His fight last night had been brutal, one that he had let go on for far longer than necessary. He had needed it though, the extra hits and the damage that had been done to his body. After the last three fights, stopping from killing his opponents only because someone pulled him off, Valon had been trying to find a way to keep from losing himself in the bloodlust.

The only thing that could center him was pain. He hadn’t realized this at first. During his fight, he’d been thinking about his training for this, how whenever Gjarper landed a solid punch to his face, his vision became clearer and his thoughts more coherent. Running with that idea, he let his last opponent land a number of punches, a few to his face, another half dozen or so to his body, and when he was pulled back from the abyss that threatened to consume him, Valon knocked the man out with a single punch to the jaw.