Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SORCHA
I stare at the gloomy surroundings of my flat and flop onto the saggy sofa, closing my eyes and contemplating what I should eat before this gauntlet.
If I should eat anything at all. My bags are still dumped in the corner where I left them when I arrived earlier.
I decide against it. A full stomach is a liability.
It makes you sluggish. I’ll run on adrenaline and rage; it’s a diet that’s served me well so far.
I heave myself off the sofa and drag one of my duffels into the middle of the room.
I unzip it, not bothering with the few clothes I packed, and dig past them to the false bottom.
My fingers close around the familiar cold steel of my favourite knives.
I pull them out, lining them up on the coffee table.
A set of three throwing knives, perfectly balanced, and my trusty boot knife.
I check their edges, a ritual that calms the frantic energy coursing under my skin.
Moving to the bedroom, I strip off and crawl naked into bed. I have nothing to do until it’s time to head to this gauntlet crap, so I might as well get some sleep while I can. I set my phone alarm to wake me at nine o’clock, and then close my eyes.
But sleep is elusive. I keep going over the goliath from the quad and wondering if he is part of this Kings bullshit.
His arrogant smirk is burned into the back of my eyelids.
That predatory look. It pissed me off, but the memory of it still sends a low thrum of heat through my veins.
Fucking prick. He’s exactly the kind of entitled arsehole who would call himself a king.
I’ll enjoy knocking him off his throne if he is.
My clit twitches in response to his face in my mind’s eye. I moan softly and slide my hand between my thighs. I squeeze my pussy before rubbing my clit, imagining the head of his fat cock teasing me.
“Jesus,” I groan as it gets me off more than anything has for a while.
My pussy goes wetter and I thrust two fingers inside me, with a gasp before I withdraw and run them over my slippery clit.
The friction is a raw, desperate pleasure.
I imagine his big, tattooed hands pinning my wrists above my head, his body a heavy weight on mine.
My moans fill the otherwise silent room as I fuck myself, using him as my porn.
The fantasy is a blend of violence and lust, a chaotic storm in my mind where I’m taking him and being taken, fighting for every inch of dominance.
My cunt clenches around my fingers, tight and hot.
The pleasure is sharp, coiling in my gut until it has nowhere else to go.
It snaps. A hard, jagged orgasm rips through me, and I cry out, my back arching off the lumpy mattress.
For a moment, I lie there, panting, my body slick with a thin sheen of sweat. The lingering pulses of my release aren’t enough. I want more. I want the real thing.
I roll onto my side, the image of his arrogant face now a target. I’ll see him tonight. I’m sure of it. With that final thought, the tension finally drains from my limbs. Sleep pulls me under, a black, dreamless current that promises a few hours of peace before the war begins.
My phone alarm screeches, dragging me from the depths of a dream that has my clit twitching again.
Fuck. That guy, whoever the fuck he is, has caught my attention in a bad way.
I consider masturbating again, but I need to move.
I don’t want to be late for this challenge.
Whatever it is, I know that showing up late will only end up being worse for me.
Hauling my arse out of bed, I scoop up my hair into a messy bun and head for the shower. The bathroom is even more dingy than the rest of the flat, but it has running water, so it will do.
The shower is quick and brutally cold by choice, a shock to the system that sharpens every one of my senses and doesn’t cause me to linger.
I step out and dry off before rummaging in my bag for my black combat pants and a tight-fitting tank top.
I pull on my scuffed combat boots, lacing them tight, and slide my favourite blade into the sheath tucked inside the right one.
I pick up my favourite blade, the one that has saved my life countless times and kiss the steel.
“You and me, Bessie,” I murmur. “It’s always just you and me.
” I shove it into the back of my pants and then pull the hair band from my hair.
I spend a few minutes wrapping my waist-long hair into a tight bun this time.
Less opportunity for any fucker to use it against me.
With only a slight pang of nerves about what I’m walking into, I take a deep breath and head out, closing the door quietly behind me.
This block is small, but the walls are paper-thin.
I’m not here to cause trouble with my neighbours, and hopefully they will repay the favour.
If not, I will make their lives a living hell until they learn some manners.
Taking the flight of stairs, two at a time, I step out into the chilly night.
My nipples pucker instantly, but I’m not going back for a jacket.
It’s a liability and will only weigh me down.
The campus perimeter is busier than I expected it to be, with groups of next-gen mafia kids moving quietly towards the lake.
Whatever this thing is, it’s big. It makes me wonder why all of this has been set up for me.
Or am I crashing a pre-planned event by showing up here out of the blue?
St. Bart’s was a “last-minute change” to the schedule, which was planned to throw off anyone who was watching me.
As I draw closer to the lake, I’m cloaked in a damp, clinging mist. The manicured perfection of St. Bart’s is gone, swallowed by the night, replaced by the whisper of wind through the ancient trees, the rugged landscape feeling more my thing.
Up ahead, flickering torchlight dances against the stone of the old crypt.
A crowd has gathered around the door, waiting for entry.
I hang back. No one has seen me yet, so I lurk, watching, waiting.
The door swings open silently, and the man who opened it steps aside to let everyone in.
He is a looker and stands out amongst the crowds.
He has short brown hair, styled to look untidy.
He has a bearing that screams upper-middle class, if not higher.
He is dressed in a dark suit and does something that makes my pussy clench.
He adjusts his cuffs as he waits for everyone to file in.
He’s sexy as fuck and definitely not your average gangster.
There is more about him, and I’m curious.
I move forward, the last to arrive. He stares at me, a chilling smile curving his lips.
“You’re new,” he states with an English accent that is so posh, I almost bark out a laugh. Upper-middle class, my arse. This guy has noble blood.
“I was invited.”
His eyes narrow. “By who?”
“Don’t you mean by whom, plum boy?”
He chuckles darkly. “Oh, you’re a fun one. Name?”
“Sorcha Gannon.”
I wait.
The recognition of my last name flickers in his eyes, and he raises an eyebrow.
“Gannon,” he says, his posh accent making my name sound like a rare and dangerous artefact. “Why am I not surprised?” He steps aside, a grand, mocking gesture. “By all means, enter. We’ve been expecting you.”
I brush past him, letting my tits press up against him briefly before striding into the crypt.
The air inside is cold and heavy, thick with the scent of damp stone, lit candles, and the metallic tang of anticipation. It’s a circular chamber, the walls lined with empty alcoves where coffins once rested.
“Down,” he says.
“You got a name?” I ask, staring at the open trap door in the floor. Something about this is giving me a seriously bad vibe. I feel like I’m walking to my execution without even knowing what crime I did to deserve it.
“Axl,” he says. “Axl Rhodes.”
Time stands still for one single, perfect moment before I snort so loudly, I fear I’ll wake the dead. “You have got to be fucking kidding me, right?”
He gives me a long-suffering death stare. “Not kidding.”
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh, but it’s a near-impossible task. “Well, sweet child o’mine. How about you lead the way, hmm?” I gesture to the trapdoor.
He growls. It changes his persona immediately.
He isn’t some rich kid who lets the plebs do his dirty work.
Oh, no. This one gets his hands bloody, and he fucking enjoys it.
He moves over to the hole in the ground, but he doesn’t go down.
He just stands there, glowering at me, waiting for me to go first. He expects me to be afraid. To hesitate.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. With a shrug, I move forward and start the descent, my boots echoing in the narrow steps as we plunge into the depths of the earth.
The air grows colder, heavier, saturated with the smells of damp earth, cigarette smoke, stale beer, and something sharp and coppery. Blood.
The stairway opens into a huge, circular chamber hollowed out of the earth beneath the crypt, easily ten times the size of the upper crypt.
The walls are rough stone, and the only light comes from dramatic flickering fire torches set in iron sconces at symmetrical intervals.
A crowd circles a cleared space in the centre, smoking, drinking and placing bets as two men, stripped to the waist, are warming up.
It’s a fucking gladiatorial arena.
I cast a glance back at Axl, and he smirks, closing the door behind him, trapping me in. I don’t show signs of nervousness, even though this wasn’t quite what I expected. Instead, I return the smirk. “Underground fight club. Nice.”
He moves in closer, this time being the one to force contact between us. I don’t step back. I tilt my head back to stare into his eyes. “No weapons,” he states and then moves away, leaving me cold where his body pressed against mine.
“No weapons,” I mutter. “Okay, that does not even the playing field.”
I stride forward, stopping on the edge of the makeshift ring. I spot Annastasia O’Shea and glare at her. She shoots me a smile that tells me if I don’t win, she is going to slice me open.
What the fuck have I got myself into?
My gaze scans the rest of the crowd. Axl Rhodes has joined the goliath from the quad, unsurprisingly, and some other guy who looks like he would rather bash your brains in than utter a single word.
I let my gaze drift over them to the two fighters stepping into the ring.
One is lean and muscular. The other is larger, but my bet is on the wiry one.
He has that look in his eye that screams psycho.
A practically naked woman steps forward, her tits and cunt covered by scraps of translucent material. She slides her gaze over to the guy from the quad with a sultry smile, and I step forward to, irrationally, rip her fucking eyes out. Bitch.
Luckily for her, and him, and probably me for making an arse out of myself over a guy whose name I don’t even know, she calls for the first fight to begin.
The wiry one moves like a fucking snake.
He ducks under the big guy’s first clumsy swing—a haymaker that would have taken his head clean off—and sinks a fist deep into his opponent’s ribs.
A sickening crack echoes in the chamber, louder than the grunts of the fighters.
The crowd roars, a wave of savage approval. They’re animals, all of them.
Big guy stumbles back, his face a mask of pained surprise. He has brute force, no finesse. The wiry psycho, on the other hand, is all sharp angles and cruel precision. He doesn’t waste a single movement. Each jab, each kick, is designed to cripple. It’s a dance of death, and he’s leading.
The fight ends with a final, brutal crunch. Wiry psycho drives his knee into the big guy’s face. Blood sprays across the stone floor. He goes down and doesn’t get up. The crowd goes wild.
The nearly naked girl steps forward again, her voice echoing in the sudden quiet after the roar. “Winner is Oisin Murphy. He will defend his win against Kieran Jackson.”
Kieran Jackson steps up. He is about the same size as Oisin, but the psycho runs deep in this one. It will be an interesting fight. I settle back to watch, knowing that my turn will come. It’s just a matter of when.