Chapter 12 Sorcha
CHAPTER TWELVE
SORCHA
The words hang in the air, thick and poisonous, before the crowd fucking explodes. It’s not cheering. It’s a baying, bloodthirsty roar that makes the stone walls vibrate. My stomach clenches. Axl just sentenced one of us to die for the entertainment of these sick fucks.
I look at O’Malley.
He stares back at me with an arrogance that screams he plans on winning this, no matter what.
Well, that makes two of us, and then I will turn the tide on the Cerberus Order for putting my life in danger. Arseholes.
My gaze snaps back to Axl. He smiles and gestures with his head for me to come closer. Something about the look in his eyes makes me move. Subtly.
I turn around and walk backwards, under the pretence of sizing up my opponent.
I “accidentally” walk into Axl, who hisses, “His left knee,” before he shoves me forward abruptly.
His left knee.
Axl just gave me O’Malley’s weakness.
“Blades only. Make your choice,” Ciar barks out.
My insides wither slightly, but at least O’Malley isn’t going to pull out a gun and shoot me in the head before I’ve even taken a step forward.
This is going to get up close and personal.
I pull Bessie from the waistband of my combat pants, her blade glinting in the torchlight.
O’Malley pulls a mean-looking blade from behind him, its serrated edge designed for tearing flesh, not clean cuts.
He grins, a bloody, broken thing. He thinks this is his redemption.
He thinks he’s going to kill me and regain whatever pathetic honour he thinks he lost.
The nearly naked girl from last night steps forward. “Bets closing,” she says excitedly. “Go!”
There’s no bell, no ceremony. Just that one word.
O’Malley roars and charges, a clumsy, rage-fuelled lunge. His blade swings in a wide, predictable arc meant to cleave me in two. I drop, letting the momentum carry him past me, the wind of his blade stirring my hair. I spin on my heel, Bessie held in a reverse grip.
His left knee. The words echo in my head. Why would Axl help me? Another mind game? A way to indebt me to him? It doesn’t matter. I’ll use any weapon they give me, even information.
I don’t go for the knee yet. It’s too obvious. Instead, I dart in, slicing a shallow cut along the back of his thigh. He bellows, more in anger than pain, and whirls around, his movements getting sloppier. He’s brute force and fury. I’m a ghost he can’t pin down.
I feint right, watching Sean’s bloodshot eyes track the movement like a starving dog.
He follows, his weight shifting to his right leg, muscles tensing beneath sweat-slicked skin.
It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. I pivot on the ball of my left foot, the stone floor gritty beneath me, and drive my steel-toed boot toward Sean’s left kneecap with every ounce of strength in my body.
The heel connects with bone yielding to leather and metal with a wet, sickening crack that reverberates up my leg.
A high-pitched scream tears from his throat, primal and raw, drowning momentarily beneath the crowd’s collective intake of breath.
His leg gives way, folding backwards like wet cardboard, ligaments snapping like overtightened violin strings.
He collapses, his full weight crushing down onto the ruined knee, face blank with shock, then twisting into a rictus of agony, and he howls.
The crowd roars, a wave of pure bloodlust washing over us, their faces transformed into something feral and hungry in the flickering torchlight.
I stare in surprise as he folds like a cheap tent. Axl’s intel was bang on. I try not to glance at him, forcing my gaze to remain on Sean.
He swings the serrated blade from his position on the floor, a wild, desperate arc. I try to dance back, but the jagged edge catches my forearm, tearing through my top and skin. A sharp, searing pain lances up my arm, but I ignore it. Adrenaline is a better drug than any painkiller.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ciar slap a hand to Cillian’s chest, and it infuriates me. Why won’t that dickhead leave me to fight my own battles?
Sean tries to use his good leg to push himself up, his eyes wild with the knowledge that he’s about to die. I don’t give him the chance. I step in, planting my boot on his injured thigh to hold him down. He screams again, a pathetic, gurgling sound.
My left hand grabs a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to expose the pale, sweat-slicked skin of his throat. His eyes are wide with terror, finally understanding.
Bessie is a cold, final kiss against his flesh. I drag her across his throat in one smooth motion. Blood, hot and thick, sprays over my hand and chest. He makes a choking sound, his body convulsing once before he goes limp, his dead eyes staring up at the stone ceiling.
Silence falls. I stand over his body, chest heaving, my blood dripping from my arm to mingle with his on the floor.
Then the crowd erupts around me.
But I just stand there, blood dripping from Bessie’s blade like crimson teardrops onto the stone floor.
I’ve killed before, but never like this.
Never with dozens of eyes burning into my skin, never with the heirs of criminal empires betting on my survival like I’m nothing but a fighting dog.
My legs tremble beneath me, muscles spasming with leftover adrenaline.
The stench of blood fills my nostrils as it feels like the underground crypt contracts.
The stone walls inching closer with each ragged breath that tears from my lungs.
Without a word, I bolt for the exit, scrambling up the worn steps.
The night air hits my face like salvation, cool and clean, but I only get half a desperate breath before knuckles connect with my face, knocking me into oblivion.