Chapter 11 Katana
KATANA
My heel catches on the flare of fabric around my feet, nearly sending me tumbling down the stairs.
I jerk forward, catching myself with a palm on the rail.
Hands close around the curve of my hips, steady and firm, pulling me upright before I can fully pitch forward.
Dante’s right behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back for a second.
His grip is solid, unflinching, steadying me.
“Careful, Hellcat,” he murmurs, low enough that it hums against the shell of my ear.
Heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and inconvenient. The air presses down heavy and thick. It clings to my skin, mixing with the undercurrent of Dante’s scent at my back. My body can’t tell the difference between the danger below and the desire standing too close.
I shove a breath out through my nose, force my spine straight, and shrug his hand off like I don’t need it. But the warmth where his fingers pressed lingers, and I hate that I want it back.
I tug my mask back into place before it slips fully. The lace digs into my cheekbones, itchy where it presses against sweat.
I feel like a fraud without my cut. No leather on my shoulders, no weight of it grounding me.
Just silk and lace that don’t belong to me, heels that make me feel like prey instead of predator.
Every click reminds me I’m not dressed for war; I’m dressed for a show and I hate being the center of attention.
A roar spikes from below, loud enough to rattle up the stairwell.
The crowd’s chant rises, guttural and raw, pulling at something I’ve spent years locking down.
The sound drags me with it, step by step, until my heels hit the floor at the bottom and the room spreads wide like some twisted cathedral.
The marble is gone, replaced by bare concrete, cool and damp beneath the stale heat.
The air is thicker here, every breath full of smoke and sweat, bitter on my tongue.
Long strips of industrial lighting hum overhead, throwing shadows across pipes and vents that look like veins feeding into the belly of the building.
The sound of the crowd, hungry and ugly, surrounds me with every step forward.
The cage dominates the center. Its bars thick and black, bolted into concrete, ringed by velvet booths stacked in tiers.
Masks glitter in the hazy light, faceless suits and gowns leaning forward, starved for the thrill.
Their bloodthirsty cheers swell, and it cuts me to the bone because I know that sound too well.
“I’ve got money on the tall one. He’s juiced to the gills.” A voice slurs behind us.
“The little one’s already wobbling. He won’t last another two minutes.”
Laughter cuts across the room, smoke drifting thicker as men lean in close to make wagers, their voices hungry.
The smell is choking. Expensive cigars and cheap cigarettes burn thick.
The sweetness of spilled champagne mixes with the bitterness of whiskey and sweat, all of it layered over the metallic tang of blood ground into the floor.
It clings to the back of my throat, and I have to swallow against the bile rising up. The roar of the crowd crashes over me.
Something clenches in my chest. The heat, the stink of sweat drags me sideways and for a heartbeat I’m back under the lights, gloves on, sweat stinging my eyes, the taste of copper in my mouth.
Suddenly it’s not Serrano’s cage I’m looking at, but the mat beneath my feet years ago.
Chalk dust in my throat. My opponent’s snarl, blood pooling between her teeth, her eyes wild.
My arms trembled from swinging, lungs burning, ribs screaming every time I pulled air in.
Stopping wasn’t an option. Hesitation meant being carried out in a body bag.
The crowd’s roar in the here and now bleeds into that night until I can’t tell them apart. Finish it!
Break her!
Don’t stop till she’s down!
Fists slamming the mat, the chant building, pounding through my skull until all I could do was swing harder.
I remember the moment her eyes glazed over and her body slumped against the ropes, but I kept hitting. Because if I didn’t… if she twitched back up… it’d be me laid out in blood. That’s what survival looked like. Not winning. Just not dying.
The sweat, the blood, the fear of that night presses in until it’s choking me. A warm hard presses into my lower back. Dante’s hand. His thumb shifts the smallest circle, and it cuts through the haze snapping the memory apart, reminding me where I am.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low, right at my ear.
The chant fades back into scattered shouts, cheering like this is theater.
They don’t know. They’ll never know.
My lungs drag in air like I’ve been under water for too long.
The cage in front of me comes back into focus.
Two fighters move in circles around one another.
One looks carved out of stone, muscles rippling, eyes pinpricks in a glassy stare.
Every movement is too fast, too strong, like his body’s running ahead of his mind.
The other sways on his feet, arms heavy, guard slow to rise.
I’ve seen exhaustion before. I fought through it myself.
This isn’t that. His timing’s broken, legs rubber like he’s fighting against more than just the man in front of him.
The fighters in that cage aren’t competing.
They’re pawns. And I know it because I’ve been one.
Dante’s hand is steady at my back like he’s holding me together.
The heat of it pulls me out of my head, and when I glance up, he’s not watching the fight.
He’s watching me. That look, like he’s seeing a part of me I’ve never shown anyone, burns hotter than the crowd’s roar.
I hate it. Hate how close he comes to seeing the truth I keep locked down.
“Hellcat,” he says finally, his voice low enough to get lost in the noise. “You’ve been here before.”
It’s not a question.
The words gut me sharper than the memory.
For a second, the walls I keep tight around myself shift.
My body tips closer, just an inch, steadying against the heat of him.
His chest is solid at my shoulder, his hand a brand at my spine.
I let myself lean into it just for a breath, just long enough to find my footing.
I pull it back as quick as it came, my jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter where I’ve been. What matters is that no one else ends up there.”
His thumb presses firmer, like he heard the slip but isn’t going to call me on it. No judgment. No pity. Just that steady heat, grounding me in a way I hate and need all at once. And in that beat, I know that he sees more of me than I meant to give.
A roar spikes from the cage, and I look up just as a woman in nothing but sequins and stilettos steps through the cage door holding a placard above her head.
Her heels click sharp on the concrete, her smile plastered wide, but her eyes are empty.
The crowd whistles and jeers, dollar bills waved like flags, and she parades herself around like it’s all part of the act.
Dante’s hand stays steady against me, but I feel the shift in him.
His shoulders tighten, head dipping just enough that his mask shadows his face.
For the first time since we came down here, he’s not projecting confidence.
He’s hiding. Like there’s a chance someone in this crowd knows exactly who he is.
And that rattles me even more than the memories.
His body goes rigid beside me, every muscle wired sharp. I follow his line of sight, expecting another threat in the crowd, but it isn’t the spectators that have him locked up. It’s the prep cage just off the main ring.
A girl stands inside, swaying on her feet, pupils blown wide and glassy. Her arms tremble as she tries to keep them up, her knees buckling under her own weight. She looks strung out, forced upright by nothing but fear.
Dante’s breath cuts rough through his teeth.
“Alicia.” His voice rumbles from deep in his chest.
My gut twists when I realize she’s no stranger.
His hand leaves my back, curling into a fist at his side.
Fury rolls off him so hot it raises the hair on my arms. The crowd erupts as the cage door screeches open.
A handler shoves the girl forward, barking orders she’s too far gone to follow.
Her head jerks like it’s tethered to invisible strings, body fighting itself more than the ring in front of her.
“Jesus,” I breathe, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
I don’t know what they pumped her full of… opiates, tranqs, benzos maybe, something to drag her under but keep her body moving like a puppet on strings.
Dante doesn’t move, but I feel the tension in him like a coiled spring.
His mask hides his expression, but I don’t need to see his face to know what’s written there.
The guilt in his posture. The rage in his breathing.
The way his fingers flex like he’s already imagining wrapping them around someone’s throat. He’s shaking with rage.
I should tell him to hold the line, to stay covered until we know more, but my chest is tight, my own pulse jagged, because I can’t look away from her either.
She’s not just fighting for survival, she’s being fed to the wolves, and the wolves are wearing suits and masks in velvet booths, drinking champagne while they watch her break.
The prep cage door clangs shut behind her, and Alicia stumbles forward into the ring, blinking hard like she’s trying to force her body to obey. Her hands shake when she raises them. Her movements are slow and heavy.
Across from her is another woman, who looks like she’s carved out of raw muscle, her frame is broad, her arms roped with veins that pulse beneath oily skin. Her jaw flexes, square and clenched, and her eyes burn with a glassy fever.
She looks juiced, the complete opposite of Alicia. She moves in sharp bursts like she doesn’t know the meaning of restraint.