Hounds of Hell MC 7: Outcast

Outcast

By the time Outcast found Purgatory, he was already running on rage and adrenaline.

It hadn’t been easy. He hit the underground fight scene in Louisville as soon as he rolled into town Friday afternoon, starting with the usual haunts—fight gyms, dirty backroom betting houses, bars where the bruised and broken nursed their wounds. He wasn’t looking for Purgatory at first. He was looking for Goliath. And the bastard wasn’t hard to find.

Everywhere Outcast asked, the name carried weight, like the guy was a goddamn legend. “You want to see him fight?” one bouncer had laughed, eyeing him up like he didn’t belong. “You’ll have to get into Purgatory for that.”

That was all he needed. From there, it was a matter of pressing the right people—leaning on a low-level fighter who owed too much and had too little to lose. On Saturday night, Outcast was standing inside Purgatory, surrounded by a bloodthirsty crowd.

The place was everything he expected—an illegal fight pit dressed up like an exclusive underground club. The stench of sweat, booze, and desperation filled the air, the steel cage in the center gleaming under dim, flickering lights. The fights were raw, brutal, and there were no rules except the unspoken one: Don’t stop swinging until the other guy stops moving.

Outcast made his way toward the bar, eyes sharp as he took everything in. He wasn’t just here for a drink. He was hunting. The bartender spotted him before he even sat down. She was young, dark-haired, and smirking like she saw something she liked. He let her look. It worked to his advantage.

“Beer,” he said, tossing a bill on the bar.

She slid a bottle his way, leaning in with a teasing grin. “Haven’t seen you here before. You fight?”

He took a swig, letting the question hang before giving her a slow smirk. “Not here.”

She laughed, intrigued. “Well, maybe you should. You look like you could break someone in half.” She draped an arm on the bar, lowering her voice just enough to feel like an invitation. “What brings you to Purgatory, then?”

He glanced at the cage, but Outcast didn’t linger on the fight. He was already scanning the room, hunting for familiar faces. Instead, his eyes landed on something else. Near the cage, perched on an elevated platform like some kind of goddamn king, was a man sitting in what looked like a throne. Dark wood, red velvet, positioned just high enough to make sure everyone knew exactly who ran the place. Next to it was another seat—empty for now.

Outcast turned to the bartender, who still seemed very interested in talking to him. “Who’s the guy with the throne?”

She followed his gaze, rolling her eyes as she wiped down the bar. “That’s Sebastian Six. Owns Purgatory. Runs the fights, runs the money, runs the people stupid enough to owe him something.” She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Scary as hell, even when he’s in a good mood. And trust me, you don’t wanna see his bad ones.”

Outcast took a slow sip of his beer, filing that information away. Sebastian. If he ran this place, he knew everyone who fought here. And if Goliath was fighting tonight, Sebastian was the one pulling the strings. He was about to ask more when movement caught his eye.

A woman stepped onto the platform, walking toward the empty seat beside Sebastian. She moved like she was made of glass—shoulders tight, steps careful, as if the wrong move would shatter her completely.

His grip tightened on his bottle as the dim lighting hit her face. Anya.

For a second, he couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. She looked different. Thinner. Paler. That fire he’d always admired in her was dimmed, replaced by something that made his chest tighten like a vise. Fear. She was stiff, her hands curled into fists in her lap, her expression empty in a way that only meant one thing. She was barely holding it together.

He forced himself to stay still, to not react, even as rage simmered under his skin. His grip tightened on his beer bottle. What the hell had they done to her?

The bartender followed his gaze, rolling her eyes. “Yeah. That guy thinks he’s king of the damn world. Even thinks he gets to decide who his lady ends up with.”

Outcast kept his expression neutral, but his pulse pounded like a war drum. “That so?”

“Oh yeah. That poor girl.” The bartender shook her head, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “She’s his, but he’s handing her off to Goliath tonight. When he wins.” She made a face, disgust curling her lip. “Like she’s a goddamn victory prize.”

Rage coiled tight in Outcast’s chest, but he forced himself to stay relaxed, to keep the easy smirk on his face. “That a regular thing?”

“Not that I’ve seen. But he’s pissed at her for something.” She shrugged, swirling a rag inside a glass. “If Goliath wins, she’s his for the night from what I’m hearing. And we all know Goliath’s gonna win.”

Outcast swallowed down the fire rising in his throat. He gave the bartender a slow nod, tipping his beer toward her. “Good to know.”

Then he turned back toward the pit, his hands curling into fists.

Because if Sebastian thought he could give Anya away like she was some trophy to be passed around? He was about to learn the hard way that he’d made the wrong fucking call.