Riot Read online

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Copyright Page

  Thank you for buying this

  St. Martin’s Press ebook.

  To receive special offers, bonus content,

  and info on new releases and other great reads,

  sign up for our newsletters.

  Or visit us online at

  us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

  For email updates on the author, click here.

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For the Scarred Souls fans that have taken this epic journey with me.

  May we see the dark romance revolution rise!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mam and Dad, thank you for all the support. Thank you to my husband, Stephen, for keeping me sane. Samantha, Marc, Taylor, Isaac, Archie, and Elias, love you all. Thessa, thank you for being the best assistant in the world. Liz, thank you for being my super agent and friend. Eileen and Dom, the best editors a girl could ask for, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you to all the bloggers who have supported my career from the start. And lastly, thank you to the readers. Without you none of this would be possible.

  Prologue

  901

  The Blood Pit

  Georgia

  Unknown Location

  The coarse sand crunched under my feet as I pounded down the tunnel. The loud stomping of thousands of spectators—bloodthirsty, rich spectators—all slamming their feet against the ground above filled every inch of air around me. My muscles twitched as I held one of my Kindjals, my treasured Russian Cossack daggers, in each hand. I spun them as my blood rushed through my veins, igniting my bloodlust.

  The thunderous, rhythmic stomping of the waiting crowd grew faster, as my legs pushed my body into a steady run. My lips rolled back over my teeth. A low growl tore from my mouth. The echoes of my heavy, excited breathing beat in tandem with my fast-moving feet.

  The pitch-darkness of the tunnel gave way to light as I approached the ramp that led to the pit. The pit where hearts were pierced and monsters were slain. The pit where blood ran as freely as water, where flesh slipped from the bone as easily as the most tender of meats.

  Where champions reigned supreme.

  The pit where I held court. The king, the demon shade, the famed “Pit Bull.” I was unbeaten. No one that Master dragged in from aboveground could take me down. They barely even made a scratch when they attacked. For years I’d reigned as champion.

  I owned this sand.

  I owned every soul freed in this ring.

  In the Blood Pit, I was a god.

  As the mouth of the pit came into sight, I picked up speed as the crowd roared above. Then I was free as I burst into the arena, rushing forward to slay anyone put in my path.

  I swung. My treasured Kindjals, in seconds, sliced through not one but two males who ran at me without skill or a hint of competitive spirit. Their lifeless bodies slumped to the ground behind me, but I didn’t look back. My eyes tracked the remaining three fighters, circling, craving my blood.

  I smiled. I kept my head lowered and my eyes off theirs. They didn’t stand a chance. These males were already dead to me. More fresh meat, soon to be disposed of.

  The first ran at me, quickly followed by a second. I cut them down without breaking a sweat. Then the final opponent edged forward, swinging a bladed chain around his head. I ducked left, then immediately to the right, until we passed each other. I pushed by his side and sent my trusty blades into his torso. I kept my attention focused as the dying male fell to the ground. I heard the telltale thud of his body disturbing the sand … then the spectators roared their approval.

  I stood upright, unmoving, as the crowd jumped to their feet, chanting my number over and over again.

  “901! 901! 901!”

  My eyes scanned the crowd, hatred dripping off me in waves, until my eyes found Master. Master was sitting on his seat, the gilded seat, which was central to the pit. And he glared. It was a glare filled with a mixture of pride and censure.

  I waited, waited for him to give me permission to leave. When he did, with a dismissive flick of his wrist, I turned on my heel and stormed back down the tunnel. I trudged through the darkened hallway back to my cell, when Master suddenly appeared before me.

  I stopped, remaining stock-still.

  Immediately, I dropped my head in submission.

  My eyes focused on Master’s perfectly polished black shoes, his legs draped in the finest of suits. And I waited. I waited for him to speak.

  “I told you to make it slower this time. I told you to create a show. You kill too quickly. You’re costing me money. No one will bring their best fighters to face you unless you show an element of weakness. You don’t ever appear beatable.”

  My jaw clenched at this harsh reprimand. My hands tightened on my Kindjals as they hung at my sides. “I don’t lose,” I grunted in reply.

  Master’s feet closed in until he was looking up at me. He was tall, dark, and broad. I was taller, I was broader, I was his prize killer. I was made of stacked, ripped muscles—he’d ensured it. I was brutal strength made real—he’d designed me to be that way. And best of all: I held no fear—Master had made sure I endured enough punishment that fear held no place in my black heart. He had been so thorough that I now didn’t even fear the male who owned me.

  “901,” he chided, showing me that fear bubbled just under a veneer of calmness, “you are my best fighter. My champion. My Pit Bull.” He stepped closer still. “Don’t force me to hurt you.” His hand lifted. In a move that always disgusted me beyond measure, he slowly stroked a finger down the side of my face. I froze as his fingertip ran over my lips and down over my chest. His finger traced the inked tattoo on my chest. My identity number: 901.

  I risked a glance into his eyes as he stared, transfixed, at the ink. My veins filled with blazing fire. Flames replaced blood. Because Master was insane. Master lived for this, to dominate us: his slaves. In the Blood Pit he was a king. Worst of all, he believed it.

  Clearing his throat, Master stepped back and withdrew his hand. My gaze dropped to the sand beneath my feet again. “901, you have no choice in this.” In an instant, his personality switched. He lost his anger and sighed. “Don’t make me punish you. It would pain me greatly to punish you, my champion of champions.”

  My skin pricked at his words. Because he meant it. Master would punish me. I had no doubt. He was feared by all, a predator, a born killer. He got off on inflicting pain on his slaves. But more than that, he got off on the mindfuck. The not knowing what he was thinking, not knowing if today would be the day he chose to have you killed.

  His entire empire was built on a foundation of fear.

  But I didn’t have this fear. I was too important to him. I knew it. He knew it. Everyone knew it. I had no weakness for him to exploit.

  That pissed him off more than anything else.

  He waited for my answer. Taking in a deep breath, I replied, “I won’t slow down. I won’t be beat.”

  He shook his head and smiled. But there was no humor in his smile. There was only challenge. “That’s where you are wrong, 901. Everyone has a weakness.” His eyes flared and he added, “It’s just a question of finding it.”

  Speaking against command, I replied, “I don’t have a weakness. I don’t allow myself weakness. Ever.”

  Master didn’t respond. He remained still, directly in front of me, for several minutes. Silent. Pensive. Until he moved aside, w
hich I took to be my cue to leave.

  As I hurried down the hallway to my cell, Master shouted, “You’ll yield, 901. I’ll spare you for your insubordination this time. But don’t think you are immune from punishment. Everyone is replaceable in the pit. Even you. Someone stronger and faster always comes along. Weaknesses will be found. And I assure you, they’ll be exploited.”

  I stilled. His cold, lifeless voice washed slowly over my skin. Master’s footsteps approached, the light padding of his shoes on the sand slicing through the cloying silence to where I stood. He hovered a moment, asserting his authority over me. Then, finally, he walked away.

  When his footsteps died in the distance, I marched back to my cell. His words ran through my brain with every step, my lips curling in pure hatred.

  Long ago I had resolved that no matter what he said or did, I would not let him break me. I wouldn’t kill my opponents slower and I certainly wouldn’t “put on a show”—feign failure and hide the power my body held. More important, I wouldn’t show weakness. In my twenty-one years in this hellhole, I had never shown him weakness. Because this was the motherfucking Blood Pit. Weak males died. Champions fell. Only the most brutal killers survived.

  And I too would die on this sand, but not until Master brought me someone who was worthy and ruthless enough to stop my heart. Only then would I breathe my last breath.

  My strength, my refusal to bend to his will, was the only choice I had left in this life. He’d stripped me of everything else—freedom, happiness, free will. But my pride as a warrior was just for me, the only thing I called my own. I wouldn’t let him take that, too.

  I sucked in a deep breath and increased my speed. Safe in the knowledge that there was no one out there that could defeat me anytime soon.

  Because I was the Russian Pit Bull.

  The collector of souls.

  This was my domain.

  The Blood Pit was my arena.

  And I’d fight until the end.

  1

  152

  The Blood Pit

  Georgia

  Unknown Location

  A warm breeze rippled over my skin, rousing me from sleep. My eyes were leaden as I tried to blink them open. When I finally succeeded, my vision was blurred. I tried to lift my head, but it ached, and pain pulsed down my spine.

  A small cry left my lips as I tried to lift my arms and legs. They were racked by aches and featured the sensation of being pricked with a thousand needles. My mouth was dry. My eyes finally cleared enough to stare at the stone ceiling above me. The stone was a dull gray. Yet, in contrast to my surroundings, I lay on something soft and comfortable, my head sinking into what felt like the softest of down covered in silk.

  My eyebrows pulled together in confusion. Managing to move my stiff fingers, I ran them along the soft fabric beneath me. Taking a deep breath, I held it in and forced myself to turn onto my side. I stifled a pained moan that was about to slip through my lips. I panted with exertion.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. When the pain had subsided, I opened my eyes and stared at what was before me. I was in a … bed? A real bed. A large, soft bed. My head was thick with confusion. My heart raced in panic at being here. I had never earned the privilege of a bed.

  This time I ignored the pain and shuffled my head higher on the luxurious pillow until the room loomed into view. It was large and decorated beautifully. White drapery hung from the ceiling, tenting the room. There were several carpets of the richest reds and what appeared to be old brown furniture, perfectly situated around the outskirts.

  I tried to think of where I could be, but my mind was a thick fog. I shut my eyes, the harsh light forcing me to shy away. Then it dawned: I wasn’t used to the light; I was used to darkness. But why? I didn’t know! I racked my brain trying to remember. All that emerged were fragmented images: cages, needles, pain, red-hot fire in my veins, the unbearable need for it to be extinguished. Then darker visions followed: visions of males dressed in heavy suits of black, a house filled with children, those children being taken away. Ripped from their beds.

  My hands began to shake, fingers curling into weak fists. Wraiths. Night Wraiths, my mind whispered as the words moved on.

  Then a featureless face came forth. A brutally scarred, featureless face. The face of a monster, yet as scary as this huge muscled, scarred monster was, I felt no fear. In fact, it was the opposite—I felt safe. On seeing this face, warmth cocooned me. My hands stopped trembling. But the face remained. It gave way to a deep, raw voice assuring me that he would save me. At any cost. That he would come for me, wherever I was. That we’d once again be free.

  I felt the soft, wet touch of a teardrop on my hand. Only then did I realize I was crying. My eyebrows furrowed, wondering why I was crying. Once again I racked my brain, trying in earnest to remember why this man was so important to me. I teetered on the very edge of this discovery, until the door to my right opened. I froze, as a young woman slowly entered the room. My eyes were wide and my breathing labored as I inspected her. She was small, dressed in a long, ill-fitted gray dress. She walked with a slight limp. When her head finally turned in my direction, I gasped audibly. The right side of her face was disfigured. No hair grew on that side of her head. The young female’s dark features were marred by thick, ugly scars.

  On her back, I noticed the unique identity tattoo that betrayed her status: a chiri. One of the “plagues.” The lowest type of slave in the Blood Pit. Their tattoos read 000, denoting that they had no names. They were the shades of our world, the bit players who were so lowly they were not even worthy of a personal ID. I frowned at how I knew all of this information.

  The Blood Pit … My mind raced with the realization of where I was. The place I feared most. I was in the Blood Pit. But how … where … why…?

  As if feeling my shocked stare, the chiri’s dark eyes met my own. She stilled, then quickly dropped her head. A lump clogged my throat. She looked no older than a teenager. Maybe fifteen or sixteen?

  The chiri turned to scurry to the other side of the large room, but I managed to call out, “No, please don’t.” I swallowed hard, feeling as if a million shards of glass were massaging my throat.

  I coughed to rid myself of the unpleasant sensation. As I did, the chiri rocked on her feet with indecision. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she dropped the linens she was holding in her hands and rushed to my bedside. I watched her as she poured water from the jug beside me into a glass. Without lifting her downcast eyes, she handed me the glass. I tried to lift my hand to take the drink, but the pain of moving even a muscle was too great. Tears welled in my eyes. The frustration of my confusing predicament too much to take.

  As a teardrop fell to the pillow beneath me, the edge of the glass was suddenly placed at my lips. When I blinked back the tears blurring my vision, the chiri was gesturing for me to drink. As soon as the cool liquid hit my tongue, I closed my eyes. I drank and I drank until I had emptied the glass. The chiri refilled the glass and I drank that, too.

  When she went to fill a third, I whispered, “No, that’s enough. Thank you.”

  The young female kept her head down and went to walk away. Before she could, I begged, “No, please stay. I…” I shook my head, wincing at the ache it brought. Pushing the pain aside, I asked, “Where am I? Why am I in such a room? I’m so confused.”

  The chiri did as commanded, and without meeting my eyes, she replied, “You are in the High Mona suite, miss. Master commanded it.”

  In a split second of clarity, I remembered what I was. I was a mona. A slave used for her body, to give males pleasure whenever they wished.

  Ice replaced the warm blood running through my veins. Shivers broke out along my skin and traveled down my spine.

  High Mona?

  Master?

  Suite?

  Master Arziani. That name sent a rapid shock to my heart, its beat increasing in speed. I wasn’t sure why this Master scared me so, but again, I trusted my instincts, which told me to
fear him greatly.

  Dragging in a much needed breath, I asked, “I’m in the Blood Pit?” The question left my mouth, words laced with the confusion that still smogged my mind.

  “Yes, miss. You were brought back six weeks ago. You have been gone awhile.”

  Shock rippled through my body. “Six weeks? Brought back?” I questioned. The chiri nodded once in response. I racked my brain trying to remember anything about where I had been, any morsel of memory from the past six weeks, but there was nothing. Panic flooded my senses.

  “I don’t remember,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t remember anything.” The blurred scarred face of the male flickered through my mind yet again. I tried to hold on to the image of his face. I remembered that he had blue eyes. Somehow familiar blue eyes. But before I could understand why, he had disappeared, sucked back into whichever black hole was stealing all conscious thought.

  My chest constricted and the ability to breathe was taken from me. My dry lips parted as I fought for air. Despite the pain, my hand moved to my chest and gripped over my heart. Panic surged through me and my feet began to kick. But my traitorous body wouldn’t move. The aches and pains held it down. A whimper escaped from my lips. Suddenly, two hands gripped my arms and held me in place.

  Frantically, I looked up. The chiri had leaned over the bed and was trying to keep me calm. “I … can’t … breathe…” I forced out. The chiri finally met my gaze. Her eyes were dark and large. She would have been pretty, I thought, if it had not been for the ravaged side of her face.

  “You’re panicking,” she said softly. “It’s the drugs. You have been weaned off one and placed on another, a lower, less intense dosage. It’s why you’re in pain. It’s why you’re struggling to remember anything. Your brain needs time to adjust.”

  Reaching out, I gripped the chiri’s arms and followed the rhythm of her breathing. She inhaled slowly, as I attempted to fall into step with her calm rhythmical breathing. My heart had been beating so fast I was sure it would burst from my chest. But after minutes of controlled breathing, it regained its normal beat. I could once again breathe, my pulse slowed to a steady beat.

 
-->