1. Ember
CHAPTER 1
EMBER
TEAL – WUNDERHORSE
SIX YEARS LATER
Ducking the hastily thrown blow, I bob excitedly on my feet. My opponent—a towering Brazilian with more scars than skin—is determined to punch my lights out.
Fortunately for me, he isn’t the first over-muscled dickhead I’ve dealt with. In fact, I’ve lost count of how many street fights I’ve won against stubborn, idiotic men just like him.
Mr Gael always chooses my opponents extremely carefully. No one ever bets on the willowy redhead when there’s a boulder-sized man promising to put her down.
It’s all an intricate scheme. Mr Gael is cunning like that. He places underhand bets that raise the odds against me and reward him with a greater payout each time I win.
Despite the millions I’ve undoubtedly won him over years of fighting, I haven't earned my freedom. Only a few less beatings and whippings. Protection from the assaults that other guards indulge in. And moderately better living conditions than the other women in his possession.
Unlike those women—hollow-eyed and silent when they’re summoned to work at one of his parties—I exist solely to fight. Nothing more, nothing less. He stayed true to his word when he proclaimed to have a purpose for me.
It was a long time before he rolled me out for my first bout in a seedy, underground fight club somewhere in southern Mexico. Months of lessons taught with fists and broken bones gave me enough skill to survive. Barely.
Mr Gael’s operation is the definition of do or die. I had to adapt fast to survive. Learning how to fight dirty and obliterate my opponent became more necessary than breathing.
I drink spilled blood now.
Not oxygen.
The sweat-soaked Brazilian charges towards me. It’s a pathetic move. As I suspected, he’s allowing rage to cloud his judgement, and that will be his undoing. I’m quick to dodge sideways.
The brute slams straight into the graffiti-tagged concrete wall that encloses the sunken fighting pit. His agonised bellow is like a shot of liquid dopamine straight into my heart muscle.
“Argh!” he roars.
Moving in, I run fast at his wide, scarred back. My bare feet springboard off the ground, sending me flying through the air until I latch onto him like a violent spider monkey.
With my bootie short clad thighs wrapped around his midsection, I scissor his neck with my arms. I’m slimmer than him but strong and muscled enough to choke the bastard out given a chance.
He spins around and slams backwards, crashing me against the concrete he just headbutted. Intense agony sprints along my spine from the impact, forcing the air from my lungs.
“Fuck!” I wheeze.
His response is a garbled tangle of Portuguese I can’t comprehend, but he sounds smug. I cling on when he moves again, arms wringing. Muscles straining. Chest heaving. I ride the asshole’s back like my life depends on it—because it fucking does.
I’ve lost enough fights to fear the consequences. The punishments were so severe, I’d rather die in the ring than lose again. After the first loss, Gael whipped me until I couldn’t move for a week. But my worst defeat left me out of action for months with a life-changing injury.
Each slam into the solid wall feels like it’s going to shatter my skeleton, causing every single part of me to rattle. I can already feel the vivid black clouds that will soon mark my skin.
“Die, fucking bitch!” he bellows.
Now that I understood.
“Never!” I holler back.
His power is reducing. Each backwards hit carries less weight. The more he tires, the louder the baying crowd looking down on the enclosed pit screams their heads off.
All they want is a show. I’ve built a fearsome reputation for providing exactly that. Some hurl beers while others slam their fists against the chain-links high above.
“768! 768! 768!”
That’s who I am now.
Three motherfucking numbers.
The next collision hits a weak spot in my back, the strained muscle still healing from a recent fight. A young, travelling American who I fought wanted to make a quick buck by kicking the shit out of me.
My tight cinch around my opponent’s neck falters, causing my bodyweight to lurch dangerously. I fall sideways, tumbling off his back and smashing hard into the ground.
His massive bulk is on top of me before I can suck in a stunned breath. The first punch hits my stomach, opening up a canyon of sizzling agony that rips through my organs.
Spittle and saliva smack me in the face each time he swings his fist, finding a new, unobstructed part of me to pummel. My tight sports bra leaves him a myriad of visible targets.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Desperately searching around me, I spot a chunk of dislodged concrete that’s escaped. The piece is slim and jagged, but I bet I can jam it somewhere.
When his fist slams into my jaw, my teeth click together so hard, I worry that my molars will split wide open. Tears involuntarily pour from my eyes.
He smirks, enjoying the sight. “Tá fodido.”
I spit blood that’s pooled on my tongue. “I don’t speak asshole.”
“You… fucked,” he enunciates.
“Not quite.”
Using his distraction to my advantage, I strain my arm, hoping my fingers can reach the concrete sliver. He’s far too busy laughing at me, revealing gap-filled teeth that are now stained red.
Come on, come on, I mentally chant.
Another punch to the face arrives before I can locate my potential weapon, making my head wrench to the side as I feel my skin split open. Warmth dribbles down to my jaw in a slippery wave.
It hurts like a son of a bitch, landing right on top of the cheekbone that once took two months to heal. Blinking through the haze, I can distantly see the shard I’m searching for.
I’ve shifted enough from each blow to strain my fingers to a breaking point. The very tips catch on the concrete shard, but I don’t have a spare second to rejoice.
Nudging the ridged point, I draw it into my palm. Screaming and hollering echoing all around in a deathly bay soon fades away. The filthy fight club vanishes from sight.
All I can see is the wide, pleasure-filled eyes of the man who thinks he’s beaten me. He’s not the first. Certainly not the last. But he will be the latest to learn just how wrong his entire species is.
“Smile for the crowd, buddy.”
The chunk sails into his head, packing a heavy weight that stupefies him. His bulk wavers on top of me, but he’s still conscious. Good . I want him to feel this next part.
Repositioning the shard, I ignore every fresh injury wailing at me and aim for his face. The tip is angular enough to push into his eye socket with an audible squelch that would turn a weaker stomach.
His resultant howl could break the sound barrier, it’s so inhumanly loud. Blood spatters against my face like spitting oil, mixing with my own.
Pulling my arm back, I take in the sight of his contorted face. Hands slapped over his eye, mouth frozen open on a pathetically high-pitched scream. Beautiful.
It’s child’s play to shove him aside, allowing me to shakily sit up. Every limb protests against the movement, but I’m a master at locking my pain away. It barely registers as I draw to my feet.
I’m prepared to take out his other eye or perhaps tear his throat out with my teeth when the piece of shit begins to plead. At least I think he does. I can’t understand his language, though he’s clearly cowering.
“ Tiempo !”
The announcer’s voice and a blare of an air horn marks the end of the fight. Tossing the slick shard aside, I raise my hands as high as my battered body will allow.
“768! 768! 768!”
The cheers are a confusing mixture of English and Spanish. I’ve learned enough of the latter to communicate with Gael and his men, no matter which lawless city we rock up in to fight.
“768!”
Slowly rotating around the pit, I relish in the jeering onlookers. Their praise isn’t what I’m here for, though. It’s their exuberance which marks another day of my survival.
Only one person isn’t responding to my victory. The figure stands out among the revellers who clink beers and rush to collect their earnings or stand wallowing in their financial losses.
A tall, frozen statue.
Silently watching from afar.
Nimble fingertips tangled in the chain-links, as if he was attempting to rip them open and climb into the pit himself, his undivided attention is locked solely on me.
The feel of his stare drinking me in across bloodied concrete and untold horrors feels weirdly intimate. In a crowd of drunkards, he’s just standing there. Unmoving. His patience is seemingly infinite.
“768! Here!”
Carlos’s bark pierces the strange moment, tearing me free from the bubble that’s formed around me in the mayhem. I look over to my trainer’s scowl, waving for me to follow him.
When I glance back at the crowd, the strange onlooker is gone. Not a shred of evidence remains to prove that he wasn’t a figment of my likely-concussed imagination.
With Carlos banding an arm around my midsection, I limp away from my now-sobbing opponent to leave the pit. No one is attending to him yet. Whoever he’s fighting for—a gouged eye is the least of his problems now that he’s lost.
“That was pathetic,” Carlos criticises in his usual way. “You were weak.”
“I won the fight.”
“By the skin of your teeth.”
Flinching, I breathe through the lava collecting around my spine and ribs. “I gave them a good show. That’s the whole point of these stupid clubs.”
Walking me down a dimly-lit, underground corridor, thick with the stomach-turning scent of cooking drugs and spilled liquor, Carlos scoffs. It’s a derisive, unpleasant sound.
“Don’t pretend like that shit was all part of your plan.”
“Perhaps it was.”
“ Mierda . I taught you better than that.”
Mr Gael’s trusted trainer is a cruel piece of shit with sky-high standards and a penchant for beating skill into you rather than teaching with patience or humility.
Illegal fights are only a small intersection of Antonio Gael’s business empire, spanning across borders to reach vast swathes of South America. My knowledge is limited, but he’s heavily involved in the skin trade too.
I’ve seen enough traumatised girls come and go on his grand, rural estate. Most vanish when they outlive their purpose. For years, I’ve held out hope that I’ll see her face.
Gracie.
The poor girl I left behind.
But sometimes, I hope I don’t see her. Not here. I hope she’s dead already and far from this depravity. The thought of her enduring six years of relentless torture is too much to bear.
“Clean yourself up and be ready to leave in ten minutes.” Carlos stops outside the changing rooms. “We’re needed in Ciudad Obregón by tomorrow.”
“Is he meeting us there?”
“Senor Gael’s schedule is none of your concern.”
His bushy, black caterpillars drawn together in a deep frown, Carlos waits for me to leave. I want to bite back, demand to know what he’s going to tell the man who decides my fate, but I swallow the question.
“Yes, sir.”
Limping into the small room, I take in the old cardboard boxes that once held cheap tequila to be poured down the necks of the fight club’s regulars.
Rather than avoiding the mirror, I’ve taught myself to rip the Band-Aid off fast by assessing each fight’s damage in the immediate aftermath. No sense in avoiding my own reflection.
Lukewarm water drips into the dirty sink as I study the unfamiliar woman staring back at me through one working eye, the other blackened and nearly swollen shut.
I used to see a leggy, blonde bombshell when I looked in the mirror. Someone I liked. She was attractive. Athletic. Ambitious. But so incredibly na?ve and foolish. I just didn’t know it at the time.
Now the muscular stranger staring back at me looks nothing like the person I used to be. Flaming-auburn hair has regrown from my roots over the past few years, leaving me with an odd inch of blonde at the very tips of my long locks.
Pulling out my tight bun, I finger brush the obnoxiously bright strands. I have the same vivid auburn hair as my older brother, inherited from our half-Irish mother, and it makes my porcelain skin gleam.
My narrow nose, the centrepiece of my oval-shaped face, now sits eternally crooked after years of fighting. It didn’t take long for my curved brows to grow back to their natural red, crowning my forever-changing eyes.
Some days, they’re akin to a restless sea, churning in shades of tranquil azure. Other times I see my mother looking back at me in the stormy-grey colour that invades to form a muddied ocean.
Russet streaks pour from my nose, mouth and a shallow cut that’s opened in my cheek. The blood obscures most of the bruising, but the purple marks will shine through soon enough.
Violent green and black storm clouds are already forming on my midsection, the relentless throbbing mirroring the beat of a war drum wreaking havoc on my spine. As the adrenaline fades, it’s harder to ignore.
Tipping my head down, I splash my face with water then scrub my cheeks as roughly as my bruises will allow. Pink swirls escape down the drain, removing a small fraction of the blood I’m doused in.
“You’re a savage creature, sweetheart.”
The crisp, formal British accent is a startling shock. It sends me hurtling to a place that I haven’t allowed myself to dream of seeing for a very long time.
Rearing back, I wobble on the balls of my feet, spotting a stranger lingering in the doorway through the mirror. My heart lurches against my breastbone.
It’s him.
Letting the door swing shut behind him, the observer from the crowd stalks into the room. His legs are long, powerful rowing oars that devour the space between us with each assured step.
Midnight-black hair—shaved close to his skull on the sides while the tousled strands are left long on top—perfectly matches his intense onyx eyes.
Up close, I can see a thin, wiggling scar that curves from the end of his right eyebrow to his exaggerated jawline. The puckered skin is pale and faded, evidencing the age of the uneven mark.
He’s tall. Lithe. Packing muscles that strain his dark shirt and jeans, the all-black clothing screaming bad boy. While he isn’t oversized, anxiety still prickles over me. He doesn’t need bulk to look dangerous.
“How did you get in here?” I blurt.
Bottom lip curling inwards, his tongue flicks out to tease a silver ring that pierces the soft swell.
“Your trainer is having a chat with my associates.”
“A… chat?” I turn to face him properly.
His sly smile drips with confidence. “Less talking and more bleeding on the floor, last I saw. I expected more from the infamous Carlos Morello.”
I’m not sure my mouth could fall open any wider.
“To confirm… You are Ember Lawson?”
Hearing my real name out loud knocks me for six. I have to blink several times to stop a hot wave of dizziness from sending me to my knees.
“What the… Who… Who are you?”
Lifting the edge of his leather jacket to tuck a big, veiny hand into the pocket of his black jeans, he spreads his feet. I’ve never seen a total stranger act so casual in the middle of an illegal club.
“Is that a yes?”
Awash with numbness, I summon a loose nod.
“Good. I’m Blaine Madden. Pleasure.”
A disbelieving laugh spills out of me. “Well, Blaine Madden. I have no idea what you want from me, but I’ve already gouged one man’s eye out tonight. I can make it another.”
His chuckle is rough, throaty. Full of raw masculinity and amusement. It rolls down my still-screaming spinal cord, leaving a tingling imprint in its wake.
“I saw. Impressive work.”
“He was cocky.” I shrug stiffly. “A bit like you.”
“You think I’m cocky?” His black gaze twinkles, revealing flecks of navy-blue undulating in his irises. “Seems presumptuous.”
“You’re an easy read.”
“Is that so?”
Smiling to himself, Blaine pushes up his jacket sleeve to unveil a silver Rolex. Though lines mar his forehead when he frowns at the time, he can’t be much older than early thirties.
“I’m all for foreplay, Ember, but we’re on a tight schedule. Get your shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“Our men are on guard shift for the next three minutes. I don’t mind a fist fight, but you’re in no state to punch your way out of here once that shift changes.”
I must’ve taken a harder hit to the head than I realised. He’s making zero fucking sense.
“Back up like… a thousand miles.” I grab my threadbare sweatshirt to cover up. “Explain.”
Those dangerously intense orbs watch me wincing while trying to pull the sweatshirt on. I can’t twist my body in the right way to even lift it over my head without wanting to throw up.
“Need a hand?” He lifts a single brow.
“Not from you, asshole.”
“I’m not sure what I expected from Thomas Lawson’s missing baby sister. But a foul-mouthed street fighter working for the Mexican cartel didn’t cross my mind.”
Stilling mid-struggle, I gawp at the smirking stranger. “What did you just say?”
“Come on, Ember.” He pulls down his sleeve to cover the expensive watch. “I need you to get up to speed a bit faster. Let’s move.”
“I have no idea who you are!”
“That’s an irrelevant detail.”
Taking the final steps into my personal space, he lifts the hem of the sweatshirt. I swear, something soft and gentle flickers in his obsidian gaze, tangled with the sapphire flecks.
“Dress,” he demands.
“I… W-Why?”
“If you go out there looking like that, I’ll be forced to take a page from your book and blind my men so they can’t look at that beautiful body on display.”
Yanking the fabric over my head, I shove my head inside rather than respond. Blaine tugs the sweatshirt down over my skin, covering up my sports bra. He spots my nearby shoes then kicks them towards me.
“Better. Ready?”
“For what?” I blink rapidly.
Sighing through his nostrils, his long fingers curl around my forearm. Even through my sweatshirt, I can feel his cold skin sending icy swirls deep into my sore muscles.
“Enough questions. Walk.”
After shoving my trainers onto my bare feet, I stumble beside him. I’m propelled by his momentum, the sound of not only my name but also my brother’s name, ringing in my ears.
I haven’t heard either since I was taken.
Not once.
How does he know who I am?