Don't belong here (Almaz)

[Nox]

There was a dark spot on his soul. The darkness in the light. Nox could feel the anger rising. The need to fight. The men in the ring drew him to the edge of the cage to watch, but a feminine voice spoke a bit too loudly after he bumped into the guy, "He’s so cute."

Nox froze. His mind reeled the possible reactions. The horde pushed at his human mind. Their former instincts rolling from fight to fuck and back again. The instincts clashed with his feelings for Raffe, the promise he’d failed to keep.

The guy he’d bumped into agreed with the sentiment and Nox wanted to walk away. Needed to walk away but his feet were still frozen to the floor. His heart pounded in his chest. It was hard fighting the instincts. Hard fighting the mask he’d put on for so many years. That happy-go-lucky kid who was always getting himself into trouble with his mouth and good looks. Starting fights inadvertently when flirting with some random girl. Now he was just as likely to get a beat down for hitting on the wrong guy…

His mind flit to Raffe and the anger at himself boiled again. He lifted a foot to escape the admiration and fight the instincts alone in a dark corner, but the second girl’s voice cut through the din of the fighting around him, and the chaos of his own mind. "He could dress a little better for the place. I mean who even wears hoodies and Chucks anymore?"

The words meant nothing. Nox didn’t care what other people thought about him or his attire. He wasn’t going to dress up for these fuck heads, and sure as fuck didn’t care what some prissy little princess thought about his clothes. It was the tone that struck a chord. It turned all the inner fighting in one direction.

Nox turned on his heel in one slow motion, his index finger on his right hand pointing at the snarky little shithead. He glowered at her and the light in his eyes was not friendly.

The man she was with stepped between their gaze and Nox stood staring at the man’s Adam apple bobbing up and down. The pulse in his throat thudded against his skin and the horde thought food. Nox let slip a small growl for his lips as his eyes raised to meet the man’s. "She didn’t mean anything by it so back off." He said with all the confidence of a shaky tree. His voice wavered but he didn’t move.

Nox smirked. Brave.

Nox’s eyes drifted past the man to the women behind him. A familiar faced stared at him — her voice an echo on the winds of the past few moments but it was searing pain that he recalled the last time he’d seen her. "I remember you. Was a much fancier place than this. Much more dangerous if I recall."

Nox diverted his attention back to the man who’s chest puffed out even more as he stepped between him and the gala girl — one of the few faces etched into his mind after the Ijiraq seared his soul with pain — his own power used against him. The memory alone drew out another growl.

"Don’t test me."

"I’m not afraid of you." his voice warbled. Big men fall hard. Small men weren’t worth the fight. But he so wanted to fight. His hands balled up into fists as he fought the desire to punch him. His fingernails dug into his right hand, the small crescents would likely leave a mark. A small price to pay… blood. Food. Fight. A small growl left Nox’s throat again as he waited for the man to decide one way or another which way this went. It was in his court.