Vampire Fight Club

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Blood. Violence. Sex. Cheering crowds.

None of it fazed Nathan Sabine anymore. If someone had told him a hundred years ago that he’d be completely numb to the gladiatorial battle taking place in the hockey rink-sized arena below his VIP booth, he’d have ripped out their throat with his teeth.

Hell, that still sounded like a good plan.

Instead, he was watching a hyena shifter rip out the throat of another hyena shifter. Should have been the same-old, same-old, but one of the males hadn’t shifted out of his human form.

Which was why the male had been at a serious disadvantage, and why he was now bleeding out in the sand.

Nate didn’t give a shit why the guy had wanted to fight this battle, but he had to have known he couldn’t win. The fool. No amount of money was worth dying for. Nothing was worth that.

Turning his back on the bloodthirsty roar of the spectators, Nate strode out of the private viewing box reserved for club personnel and wondered if it was possible to hate himself more than he did right now. Doubtful. He might be anesthetized to everything outside his body, but inside, he was a seething cauldron of self-loathing. Sometimes he thought that if he wasn’t a daywalker, a rare vampire who could tolerate natural light, he’d step out into the sun and end it all.

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