Savage: a Fighter Erotic Romance Novella by Christine Elliott Page A

the kitchen and found him.
    During the ensuing screaming match, I walked like a zombie into my room.  I found a backpack and filled it with the few things I could grab: clothes, food, and the meager money I’d saved.  Before anyone knew what had happened, I had climbed out the window and began my long walk away from that home, never to return.
    And yet, though I tried to run away from them, the memories followed me everywhere, haunting me.  Even now that I had run away from home, I never really escaped them.
    No, I drowned in them.  They smothered me.
    Hot tears welled in my eyes, threatening to flood down my cheeks.  I tried to snap my attention back to the task at hand: find a place to take shelter out of this freezing winter.  Maybe beg for some food or find a nice shed to sleep in tonight.  Alleys weren’t safe this time of year, not now that hypothermia was a real risk. 
    I marched forward despite the shivering and hunger. 
    I was a survivor, God damn it.  I may have been haunted by my past, poor and alone on the streets, totally unloved and abandoned … but God as my witness, I would survive.
    A few minutes later, as I turned the corner into the seedier part of the town, I found it: a bar full of bikers and their girlfriends.  I grinned like a maniac.  Finally!  These bars were filled with two things: drunk men who wanted to buy you food and drinks and biker girlfriends who wanted to baby you.  These bars were the best way for a teenage runaway to survive on her own (as long as she knew how to work them).
    It was ancient and run down, with the wood paneling rotting away and the front patio lit up with old Christmas lights.  I wandered up to it, inspecting all the old posters and road signs that had been hung up in an attempt at decoration.  One new sign was up, this one a harsh neon sign that read:
     
    KING OF THE KAGE
    FIGHT TONIGHT
    TWO MEN ENTER—ONE MAN LEAVES
     
    I stopped in my tracks, absorbed by it.  The idea was frightening … but also strangely thrilling.  I had never seen a cage match before.  And maybe, with tonight being so festive, I might be able to haggle a free meal out of this from a sympathetic drunk.  Or maybe even a place to sleep in the back from one of the bartenders! 
    My grin grew wider.  Tonight was my lucky night.
    I pushed into the bar and was blinded by the flashing lights.  The guitar of the blues music playing was loud enough to deafen a girl, and I pressed my hands against my ears to protect them.  The place was packed like a tin of sardines.  Apparently tonight really was an occasion. 
    I squeezed past biker gangs, old town drunks, and cheaply dressed prostitutes as I made my way to the corner of the room.  That was where the heater usually was, and my fingers were so numb I was sure they were about to snap off.  I took the warmest seat I could find, one at the end of the bar, and rested my head down on it.  It smelled like cheap booze and cigarette smoke, but it was a place to rest, and God I needed that right then.
    “You okay, kid?” a low voice asked next to me.
    I lifted my head, surprised that anyone was talking to me.  Next to me sat a hulking, muscled man in an old flannel shirt and jeans.  A cowboy hat concealed most of his face, which he kept down as he played solitaire.  His drink was to the right of him, totally untouched.
    “Yeah,” I said, resting my head on my hand.  “Just tired, I guess.”
    “Not excited?”
    “For what?” I asked.
    “Haven’t you heard?” he asked, his voice gravelly and masculine.  His face was still in shadows, and I longed to rip off the hat and see what lay underneath.  “Tonight’s a fight between Lucas Stone and Mad Thad Richards.  Two best fighters in the country, last I heard.”
    His voice was low but powerful enough that I heard its rough tones clearly even over the blaring music and shouts of the bar.  It did things to me I’d rather not admit.
    “Oh,” I said, nearly screaming over