8
EAST
The familiar potent anger coursed through my veins along with the adrenaline as I taped up my hands. It was a heady mix that I craved. The need to hit. Punch. Kick. To give an outlet to all the anger and hatred I had for Macon Wainright. For a decade, I’d tried to beat out the evilness inside me because I had his blood. That the cruelty he’d dished out in hefty portions I could unleash in the ring.
Tonight was different. Tonight I knew definitively that I had no blood tie to the man. That it wasn’t his DNA that made me this way. There had to be some kind of scientific study, a nurture versus nature comparison that could be done on me.
I slapped my palm against my knuckles, pressing the tape into place.
The idea made me think of Ella and her sociology work. She wanted to be a so
