THREE
S corpion perched on the rooftop of an old, abandoned factory, gazing out over the city. The starless night stretched endlessly above him, with the lonely moon casting its pale glow across the sky. Gleaming moonbeams danced on his face, softly caressing the exposed skin like a lover’s touch.
He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the petty thoughts. What was he doing—thinking about a woman’s touch? They were all the same. They wanted everything and left you with nothing.
He had learned that lesson the hard way. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything for a woman since his ex
had brought another man to their bed. He was twenty-seven then, naive enough to believe in the picket-fence life they’d dreamed of.
That was eight years ago, but the memory of her betrayal was still carved into his mind, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
Straightening, he walked the perimeter of the rooftop, letting the wind clear his mind as he stared out over his territory.
Territory.
It was the only thing that mattered in this world. Territory meant power, and power meant survival. In the Underworld, survival was everything. Power meant dominance in the arena, and territory gave you all that.
He wished his brother had understood that. Rex had chosen the life of a nomad, dancing on the edges of every territory—that’s what got him killed. Scorpion had made peace with it, but regret still punched his heart from time to time.
Yet no matter how much he tried, his mind kept circling back to Poison—her dark hair casting shadows beneath the bright lights of the launch party, the black blouse stretched tight over every curve.
He had watched her from a distance as she confidently faced off against the blonde woman. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.
Her poise, her lightning-quick reflexes during the altercation, left him in awe. She was like a viper, coiled and ready to strike.
The moment someone insulted her, something inside him snapped. An inexplicable urge to defend her surged through him, despite knowing she was more than capable of handling it herself. Yet he found himself propelled into the fight, driven by a force he hadn’t felt before.
No woman had ever stirred such a disruption of emotions in him. From the moment she stood her ground, she hooked his interest—and got him hard. Just thinking about it now made his pants uncomfortably tight.
And then, discovering she was a fighter complicated everything .
He sighed, trying to center himself, pushing his skepticism aside. Glancing over his territory one last time, he headed toward the rooftop door. Reluctantly, he took each step back into civilization. He had to report to the boss. Shit. He was going to be in so much fucking trouble for stepping out of line tonight.
As he walked down to the ground floor and out a side door toward his parked motorcycle, his mind drifted. All he wanted was a few rounds in the Temple. After tonight, the last thing he wanted was to report back.
Lost in thought, he almost missed it. Movement at the front of the building caught his eye—a black town car with tinted windows pulled up in the empty street. The car’s headlights cast fleeting shadows across the alley where he stood. He could barely make out the slender figure stepping out of the vehicle, the streetlamp’s harsh light from across the road blinding him.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, his gaze locked onto a figure with shoulder-length dark hair, efficiently moving to the car’s trunk to pull out two bags. Curiosity compelled him to abandon his bike, opting for stealth as he edged closer for a better look. When the woman snapped the trunk shut and turned toward the building, the departing car’s lights briefly illuminated her face.
Kitiara.
Recognition hit him like a punch to the gut as the vehicle disappeared into the night, leaving behind a trail of questions swirling in his mind.
Kitiara was one of his oldest and truest friends. He watched her, her sleek raven-black hair falling sharply to her shoulders, complementing her delicate features. Her almond-shaped eyes, framed by long, dark lashes, sparkled with an intensity that reminded him of a tigress ready to strike. Her skin held the soft, porcelain glow admired in the lands of the rising sun, and her graceful movements carried the quiet strength and elegance of her ancestors.
A surge of genuine joy bubbled up within him, threatening to break into laughter. It had been over four years since he’d last laid eyes on her.
At the faintest sound of his amusement, she reacted like a shadow, her katana drawn from between her shoulders in one fluid motion. Her belongings forgotten
on the ground, she crouched, ready for battle.
The sight of her, so fiercely prepared for action at a moment’s notice, sent him into a fit of laughter, his hand barely muffling the sound. Kitiara hadn’t lost her edge—always poised on the brink of action.
“Come out and face me, you coward!” she thundered, her voice slicing through the silence as sharp as her blade.
Her voice carried a gentle undertone, like cherry blossoms caught in a soft Kyoto breeze—a tender note that clashed with her warrior’s intensity.
“Is that how you greet an old friend, Kitiara Tora?” he asked, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
“Phillip?” The name escaped her in a hushed breath, disbelief and recognition blending in her tone.
This time, his laughter rang out, unrestrained.
“You’ve gotten old, Tora,” he teased, using the name her grandfather had given her. Stepping forward from the shadows, his figure was illuminated by the glow of the streetlight. “Have you become slow and boring as well?”
The hardness in her expression melted away, replaced by a radiant smile. She let her katana fall to the ground, its metallic clang echoing as she closed the distance between them in swift strides. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He returned the hug for a moment before gently pushing her back, mimicking her earlier defensive stance with a playful grin.
“Now that you’re not armed, it’s a fair fight,” he teased.
Without hesitation, she mirrored his stance, a challenging glint in her eyes. The message was clear, and he didn’t wait. He surged forward like a cyclone, his fist slicing the air inches from her face. She danced away, a blur of grace and speed, dodging his attacks with the ease of a seasoned fighter.
They sparred, laughter mingling with the sound of their movement, until breathlessness finally forced a truce.
“You might be getting old, but definitely not slow or boring,” he conceded, panting, his voice laced with admiration.
“You still have much to learn, young grass chomper,” she teased, though the fondness in her eyes betrayed her respect.
Phillip picked up her bags and katana, slinging them over his shoulders, and led her into the abandoned factory. Their footsteps echoed through the empty space, up metal steps snaking along the wall until they reached an office in the back, overlooking the open floor. He held the rickety door for her, then walked to the desk, setting her belongings on the ground.
She followed, sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed. He found a seat on a wooden crate opposite her and smiled.
“How did you find me here?”
“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This is the
first place anyone should look if they want to find you.”
Her voice had a teasing lilt, her eyes never leaving his as she picked up her katana. She placed it across her lap, her fingers lazily stroking the blade, as if petting a cat. Her gaze drifted into the distance, her mind wandering elsewhere.
He watched her, irritation and amusement bubbling beneath his calm facade. She always knew how to get under his skin, but there was something about her presence that was… comforting. “Only you would know that,” he said, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Only me?” Her eyebrows drew together in a mock frown, her expression the picture of innocence—though he knew better.
“Don’t start with your riddle shit,” he warned. “You always do it, and you know I hate it. Just get to your point already.” His frustration seeped into his words.
Kitiara always played her games, and despite himself, he couldn’t help but be entertained.
She threw her hands up, the dramatic gesture earning an eye roll from him. “No riddle, promise. But why is this your go-to hiding spot?”
He leaned back, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. “When did you get back?” His palms pressed against the rough wood of the crate, grounding him in the uncertainty she always brought with her. If she was back in town, it couldn’t be for any good reason. But he knew better than to pry—it was above his pay grade.
His mind flickered to the loft above, the refuge he had carved out of chaos after Rex’s death. She didn’t need to know about the changes he’d made, how he’d tried to impose order on the mess left behind. She hadn’t been back since then, and he wasn’t ready to share that part of his world with anyone yet.
“Earlier today,” she replied with a faint smile, her eyes knowing.
“And you didn’t call?” A pinch of disappointment slipped through, one he tried to swallow. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.
A flicker of a smile touched her lips, just enough to make him wonder if she knew exactly what he was feeling. Of course, she did. She always did.
“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Her smile was wide and cat-like, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Besides, if I had called, you wouldn’t have met her.” She raised one eyebrow, the emphasis on ‘her’ unmistakable.
His jaw tightened. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I would have worked either way. You know how the boss is.” The words felt automatic, a defensive reflex. Then, her implication hit him like a punch. “Wait, you saw her?” He murmured, sitting upright, his pulse quickening.
He despised the vulnerability in his voice, the way his heart betrayed his indifference. But Kitiara had always been able to draw out the truth, her presence a relentless mirror.
“Of course, I saw the two of you. To be honest, I was on my way to the party, but you two came outside. And it didn’t look like the time to bother you.” Her tone was casual, but the knowing glint in her eyes pierced through his fa c ade.
His mind raced, replaying the encounter. The intensity of Poison’s gaze, the fire in her movements. He tried to suppress the growing intrigue, but it clung to him stubbornly. Kitiara’s perceptiveness was both a blessing and a curse.
“You like her, don’t you?” Her words cut through his thoughts, a direct hit to the truth he wasn’t ready to face.
He scoffed, the sound rough and uncertain. “I just have no fucking clue who she is. She came out of nowhere, and apparently, she’s a streetfighter.” His voice carried a mix of frustration and fascination.
He didn’t know why he was surprised; Kitiara had eyes everywhere, and no filter between her brain and mouth. She saw everything, missed nothing, and now, she saw right through him.
The memory of Poison’s fierce rebelliousness flickered in his mind, a contrast to the usual monotony. She was a storm he hadn’t anticipated, and the thrill of it was beyond intoxicating. But with that thrill came danger, and he had learned long ago that getting too close could burn. Yet, despite himself, he was drawn to the flame, curious about the woman who had ignited something dormant within him.
The woman before him kept quiet, letting him lay out all the puzzle pieces. His thoughts raced, each piece leading to another dead end. Frustration gnawed at him. When he came up empty, he looked at her.
“Why haven’t I seen her before? It’s like she just appeared out of thin air.” He buried his face in his hands, confused and irritated.
“I know why.” Her casual shrug contrasted sharply with his turmoil.
“Why?” When she didn’t answer immediately, he raised his eyebrows at her. “What is it that you don’t want to tell me?”
“Relax, won’t you?” Her calmness grated on his nerves, but he forced himself to take a breath. She waited until his shoulders eased before she continued.
“You wouldn’t have seen her in the Temple before because she doesn’t come to our ring. She frequents a ring on the other side of the city. Italians’ territory.”
“Is she part of them?” he asked, his curiosity tinged with an unexpected hope. If she belonged to the Italians, it might be the barrier he needed to maintain his distance—though he couldn’t fathom why the thought of staying away troubled him so much. Women were trouble, and he’d had his share.
“No, she’s not.” Kitiara laughed, a light sound that held no malice. “She’s apparently holding up her own. It seems as if she has no affiliation with any of the families
in the city.”
“What else can you tell me?” he asked, feeling hope swell inside him despite the danger of letting it. Her independence intrigued him, and that alone was a risky path.
“Unfortunately, that’s all I could dig up in the past hour, but if you like this woman, then I say go for it. I don’t see any reason not to.” She sounded sincere, and it gave him a strange sense of relief.
“I just find her interesting.” The lie slipped from his lips, unconvincing even to his own ears.
The question mark between Kitiara’s brows told him she thought the same. He avoided her gaze, rising to his feet.
“You need a place to crash?” He pointed at the duffle bags next to the desk, hoping to shift the focus.
“You really offering?” She cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing. “Or just trying to get rid of me?”
“Both,” he shrugged, forcing a nonchalant tone. “I really need to get back to the boss. He won’t be happy if I keep him waiting much longer.”
“Go, I’ll be alright.” She waved him off, her expression softening.
With a nod, he rose, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned to the door. He paused on the threshold, hesitation freezing him for a moment. Without turning, he asked, “You think she’s all good?”
“All good,” she whispered.