Untamed by Emilia Kincade Read Free Book Online Page A

than he had back in Rockford. There he was just some rat, destined to become nothing but a gutter punk. Nothing but some two-bit pissant knocking off liquor stores to feed a bad meth habit while his teeth rot out. Look at what I’ve saved him from. Without me, he’d live a short lifetime of despair and drudgery. But because of me… look at my work. He’s disciplined, sculpted, a mind of metal. He’s going to be the best fighter in America. Maybe the world.”
    I frown. Duncan doesn’t seem sculpted by Dad… the impression I got, in the brief time I spoke with him, was that he was always tough. He just seems that way.
    Tougher than any of the boys at my school, anyway.
    “But why did you have to take him out of the country?” I ask. “Why couldn’t he train back home, live at home with us?”
    “I don’t want anybody else catching onto his scent,” Dad says. “They’ll try to poach him, or they won’t bet against him. I want to keep him a secret.”
    “This is all for betting? All so you can make money?”
    “He’ll be an unknown,” Dad says, baring his teeth at me with a nasty smile. “Everyone’s going to bet against him. The underdog.”
    I shake my head, can’t even understand why he’s doing this. I just don’t get it. How can he just adopt someone, ship them off somewhere, train them, and then make them work for him? How can he expect to control another human being?
    “He figures he owes me, getting him off the streets, giving him resources,” Dad mentions off-handedly. He jerks his head at me, urges me to climb up into the jeep.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean,” Dad says, “That he’ll be easy to tame.” He looks at me with that same nasty smile on his face, flashes his eyebrows. “Heel.”
    He starts the jeep, and we don’t talk for a while.
    Heel … the word echoes in my mind.
    “Can you tell me how you met him, Dad?”

Chapter Four

They say I have to be taught a lesson.
    To them, that means they have to kick the shit out of me.
    This is how everything works in the home. The older boys teach lessons. Why they teach them, they don’t know. They just use words like ‘disrespect’ and think that it means something.
    I didn’t disrespect these guys, I just didn’t let them take my money. I earned that money working. It’s mine, and I never let people take what’s mine.
    But that’s not how they see it.
    I don’t deny that I’m afraid. I don’t deny that I’m nervous. These boys are bigger than me, and they want to kick my ass, give me a beating, put me down and tell me to stay down.
    They want to build their name, like a brand. They want other people to know not to mess with them, not to cross them, to hand over everything without hesitation.
    They’re thieves and bullies, and they think that because they’re cocky and older, they have a right to do this to me.
    I have no training, but I’m confident in a fight. It’s not my first, and it won’t be my last. I’ve lost before, many times, but I’ve won many times more. I’ve taken hits, kicks, and slaps. I’ve dished out worse.
    Back me into a corner and I know I’ll stop at nothing to make sure I’m the one leaving the corner walking, not crawling.
    The social workers tell me that I have a violent streak. I tell them that the only other option is to let people take what’s rightfully mine.
    I’ll never do that.
    Anyway, if worst comes to worst, I can run, and they’ll never catch up to me. I can go for miles, whereas they’ll be out of breath in minutes.
    But that’s only a last resort. They’ll call me names, say I’m a fucking coward for not standing and fighting ‘like a man’.
    But it is three against one. Running would be wisdom in the face of danger… not cowardice. If it comes to that.
    I won’t run if I don’t have to.
    You earn a name if you run.
    One of the boys takes off his gloves. He’s the tallest, the strongest, the oldest. His knuckles are scarred and chapped dry by winter, but