Chapter 3: Bloody Retribution
The coppery tang of blood filled Damon’s mouth. His groin throbbed in time with his racing heart, a deep, sickening ache radiating through his core. Sweat stung his eyes, mingling with the oil slicking his skin as he scrambled backwards on the unforgiving mat. Across the ring, Volkov straightened, a dark rivulet of crimson tracing a path from his hairline down the side of his scowling face. He wiped it with the back of a massive hand, smearing it into the sweat and oil. His eyes, narrowed slits of fury, locked onto Damon.
"You," Volkov snarled, the word thick and dangerous. "Think you’re clever, cub?"
Damon pushed himself upright near the ropes. Every muscle screamed protest. His ribs felt like cracked porcelain. But the fire in Volkov’s gaze ignited something primal in his own gut, burning through the pain. Not clever. Desperate. And desperate could be deadly.
Volkov charged. Not the controlled aggression of before, but a bull-rush fueled by pure rage. He covered the distance frighteningly fast, a mountain of muscle vibrating with intent. Damon braced, knowing blocking was suicide. Instead, he dropped low again, aiming to slip under the grasping arms, hoping the slick surface would aid him.
He almost made it. Volkov’s hand, slick with sweat and blood, snagged the waistband of Damon’s trunks. It wasn’t a solid grip, but it was enough to yank Damon off balance. He stumbled sideways, crashing hard against the corner turnbuckle pad. Pain jolted through his shoulder. Before he could twist away, Volkov was on him, one massive forearm pinning him against the unforgiving padding, pressing hard against his bruised ribs. Damon gasped, stars dancing in his vision.
Volkov leaned close, his breath hot and rank. "Shoulda stayed down after the buckle, lion cub. Made it easier on yourself." He ground his hips forward deliberately. Damon felt the thick, unmistakable ridge of Volkov’s arousal pressing against his thigh, even through the layers of slick fabric. A fresh wave of nausea mixed with unwanted heat surged through him. "Gonna finish what I started. Right here."
Damon’s vision swam. The pressure on his ribs stole his breath. The grinding pressure against his leg, the proximity of Volkov’s bleeding forehead mere inches away… it triggered a raw, instinctual fury. Survival. Not just of the body, but of the spirit.
His hand shot up, not to push Volkov away, but into the wound. Fingers slick with oil and sweat dug into the gash above Volkov’s eyebrow, finding purchase in the raw, split flesh.
Volkov roared, a sound of surprise and real pain. His grip faltered.
Damon seized the moment. Using the turnbuckle for leverage, he shoved up and forward, driving Volkov’s head downwards and sideways – straight into the rigid corner pad.
Crack!
The impact echoed. Volkov’s roar cut off into a stunned grunt.
Damon didn’t stop. Leveraging his hold on the bleeding wound, he yanked Volkov’s head back, then slammed it down again with brutal force.
Crack!
Blood splattered the black rubber pad, bright crimson against the dark sheen. Volkov’s knees buckled slightly.
Crack!
A third time. Volkov’s eyes rolled back, his immense frame staggering, his grip on Damon utterly gone. He sagged against the ropes, momentarily dazed, vulnerable.
Adrenaline screamed through Damon, overriding the symphony of pain. He didn’t hesitate. Dropping his grip on Volkov’s head, he ducked low, planted his shoulder into Volkov’s midsection, and heaved with everything he had left. It was pure leverage against sheer mass, aided by Volkov’s disorientation and the slick mat. The Behemoth toppled backwards with a heavy thud that vibrated through the ring floor.
Damon was on him instantly. He swung a leg over Volkov’s broad torso, planting his knees hard on either side of the giant’s ribs, sinking deep into the yielding muscle. The sudden, intimate contact was jarring. Volkov’s chest heaved beneath him, slick with sweat and oil. And Damon felt it immediately – the thick, rigid length of his own arousal, strained against the confines of his trunks, pressed directly against the equally prominent bulge swelling Volkov’s. The friction, even through the drenched fabric, sent a jolt of conflicting sensation – sharp awareness cutting through the haze of combat, humiliation warring with primal response. Volkov groaned, a low, guttural sound that might have been pain, fury, or something else entirely.
Ignoring the heat pooling low in his belly, Damon locked his focus. Survival. Domination. He snaked his left forearm under Volkov’s thick, oil-slick neck, grabbing his own bicep. His right hand pressed hard against the back of Volkov’s head, forcing his chin down. The chokehold clamped shut, a vice around the Behemoth’s carotid arteries.
"Gnnngh!" Volkov’s body jolted, a fish out of water. His massive hands flew up, thick fingers scrabbling at Damon’s forearm, trying to peel it away. But Damon had sunk his weight deep, his legs pinning Volkov’s torso, his lean strength channeled into the lethal pressure on Volkov’s neck.
The veins in Volkov’s temples bulged like purple ropes against his shaved skull. His face, already smeared with blood and sweat, darkened to a dangerous crimson. He thrashed, bucking his hips violently. The movement ground their trapped erections together again, a harsh, undeniable friction that made Damon grit his teeth, his own breath catching. Volkov’s eyes, wide with panic and fury, locked onto Damon’s. They weren’t the eyes of a man giving up. Not yet.
"Sssstop... fightin'... cub..." Volkov gasped, the words forced out past the constriction. His bucking intensified, a final, desperate surge of power. Damon tightened the hold, his own muscles screaming in protest, pouring every ounce of his will, his pain, his anger into crushing the life out of the monster beneath him. He could feel Volkov’s frantic pulse hammering against his forearm. See the capillaries bursting in the whites of those furious eyes. Hear the choked, wet rasp as Volkov fought for air.
The crowd noise reached a fever pitch – a chaotic blend of horrified gasps, furious chants, and raw, bloodthirsty excitement. The air vibrated with it. Damon ignored it all. His world narrowed to the straining body beneath him, the relentless pressure of the hold, the terrifying proximity of oblivion for the man who had tried to break him.
Volkov’s scrabbling hands weakened. His furious glare started to glaze, unfocusing. His bucking slowed, becoming less coordinated, more like the shuddering tremors of a dying engine. A thick thread of saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the blood on his chin. His chest still heaved, but the breaths were shallow, whistling things. Was he fading? Or was he gathering one last, explosive reserve of that inhuman strength?
Damon didn’t ease up. Couldn’t. He bore down harder, sweat dripping from his jaw onto Volkov’s heaving chest. He saw the flicker of something unexpected in Volkov’s fading eyes. Not just rage. Not just fear. A flicker of… something else. Acknowledgment? Respect buried deep beneath the violence? It vanished as Volkov’s eyes fluttered, his body going momentarily slack. Damon held the pressure, waiting, watching the massive chest struggle for its next breath. The roar of the crowd seemed to fade into a distant ocean. The only sound now was the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the terrifyingly shallow gasps coming from the man trapped beneath him.
The only sound now was the harsh rasp of his own breathing and the terrifyingly shallow gasps coming from the man trapped beneath him. Damon held the choke, muscles trembling with the strain, watching the life flicker in Volkov’s bloodshot eyes. He saw the exact moment the Behemoth’s survival instinct roared back, overriding pain and oxygen deprivation.
Volkov’s slack body suddenly snapped taut. A guttural, inhuman sound ripped from his crushed throat. His legs pistoned upwards, driving his hips off the mat with shocking force, lifting Damon’s entire weight.
The sudden elevation broke Damon’s leverage. Volkov’s massive hands, slick with sweat and blood, finally found purchase on Damon’s forearm. He peeled it back with terrifying strength, gasping in a ragged, wet breath.
"Not... today... cub!" Volkov wheezed, his voice raw and thick. He bucked again, violently, dislodging Damon’s knee pinning his side.
Damon scrambled, trying to regain control, to sink the choke deeper. But Volkov was surging now, fueled by pure, desperate fury. He rolled sideways, throwing Damon off balance onto his back. The impact knocked the wind out of Damon.
Before Damon could react, Volkov was looming over him, a mountain of heaving muscle blocking the harsh lights. Blood dripped from his forehead onto Damon’s chest. His eyes burned with predatory intensity, the momentary vulnerability vanished. One massive hand clamped around Damon’s throat, pinning him.
"You wanted a war?" Volkov growled, his grip tightening. "Got one."
Damon choked, scrabbling at the iron vise on his windpipe. He drove a knee hard into Volkov’s ribs. The Behemoth grunted but didn’t budge, his weight crushing. Damon’s vision started to tunnel. He saw Volkov’s other hand move towards his trunks.
Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the haze. No. Not again. Not pinned. Not helpless.
Pure, unadulterated fury exploded within Damon. It wasn’t strategy. It was instinct, a wildfire consuming thought. His hands shot out, not to defend, but to attack. Fingers hooked into the waistband of Volkov’s soaked trunks.
He yanked down with every shred of strength left in his battered body. The elastic snapped. The sodden fabric tore. Volkov’s trunks ripped away, exposing his thick, hard cock straining against his abdomen.
Volkov froze, stunned. The grip on Damon’s throat slackened for a fraction of a second. It was enough.
Damon surged upwards, ignoring the screaming protest of his ribs and groin. He hooked his own thumbs into his trunks and ripped them down and off in one violent motion. Cool air hit his skin, a stark contrast to the burning heat radiating from both of them.
Naked, bleeding, Damon moved with feral speed. He slammed Volkov backwards onto the slick mat. Before the Behemoth could recover, Damon straddled his waist, pinning Volkov’s thick wrists above his head with crushing force. Their bodies slammed together, skin slick with sweat, oil, and blood.
Damon leaned down, his face inches from Volkov’s. He felt the hard ridge of his own arousal pressing against Volkov’s equally rigid length. The contact sent a jolt of raw electricity through him.
"You wanted friction?" Damon hissed, his voice low and dangerous, devoid of its usual reserve. He ground his hips down hard, grinding their trapped cocks together in a brutal, demanding slide. The thick heat, the slick pressure, was overwhelming. "Feel it."
Volkov gasped, his eyes widening. Not just in shock, but in visceral reaction. His hips jerked involuntarily upwards, seeking more contact. A low groan escaped him, swallowed almost instantly by a snarl of defiance.
"Get... off..." Volkov strained against Damon’s grip, his massive muscles bulging. But Damon held him pinned, his lean strength focused and unyielding.
Damon ignored him. He pressed his entire weight down, grinding relentlessly. The slide of hot, hard flesh against flesh was primal, intoxicating. Sweat dripped from Damon’s jaw onto Volkov’s heaving chest. He locked eyes with the older man, seeing the conflict raging – fury, humiliation, and an undeniable, answering heat.
"Feel it," Damon repeated, grinding harder, deeper. He leaned closer, his breath hot against Volkov’s ear. His voice dropped to a rough whisper, laced with dominance. "This is what you started. Now you finish it."