TEN
S taring at her watch, Poison focused on the seconds ticking away. Eleven o’clock. Still no show of Reaper. She was so sure that he would be there. Cat had left her and Skel in the locker room to pursue some nomad she saw walking by.
“I don’t think he’s coming,” Skel answered as if hearing her thoughts.
“Did you hear why he was back in the city?”
“My sources couldn’t say. And before you ask, I don’t believe it is for your territory. If he were here for that, he would have already made a move.”
She gave Skel an appreciative smile. He anticipated her every thought as if he had tapped into a direct line into her mind. She didn’t know what she had done to have him in her life, but she was eternally grateful that he was.
“You don’t know Reaper like I do,” She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. “He has no moral code. And no remorse.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked this, but why didn’t he take over the crew? I mean, he won the death match. The rules are clear—the fallen’s territory and crew belong to the victor.”
She watched Skel from the corner of her eye, taking a deep breath before she answered him.
“It’s because of the rules that he didn’t,” she answered, trying to keep any sign of emotion from her face. “I sometimes forget you weren’t here from the beginning. He broke the two-week truce. He ambushed Jonathan, and when my brother fell, the crew nominated me as his successor. According to the rules, if a truce was broken, the power of selecting a leader falls to the members.”
Flashbacks of that night clawed at her mind, a relentless assault of memories she wished she could erase. The image of her brother’s limp body on her lap haunted her, the life draining from his eyes as she held him, powerless to do anything.
The rest of the crew had arrived too late to save their leader, their panic and fury too little, too late. And she—what had she done? She had been a fucking coward.
Instead of jumping in to help him, instead of fighting with every ounce of strength she had, she had hidden. She had crouched behind the bleachers, paralyzed by fear, watching as Reaper—the man who was supposed to protect Jonathan—had killed him in cold blood.
The scene replayed in her mind, over and over, a sickening loop that had tortured her for years. She had tried to contact the crew, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her phone, praying that someone more experienced would come to save Jonathan. But deep down, she knew it should have been her. She should have been the one to stand by his side, to protect him, to fight until her last breath. Instead, she had done nothing.
The guilt, the shame, the self-loathing—it all surged to the surface, threatening to drown her in a sea of emotions she had buried for so long. She shook her head violently, desperate to drive away the thoughts that had haunted her for so many years. Not now. She couldn’t afford to lose control now.
“Wouldn’t his second have taken over?” The question pierced through her turmoil, dragging her back to the present.
“Reaper was his second,” she growled, her voice low and venomous, as if speaking his name could summon the monster who had shattered her world. The mere thought of him ignited a blazing wildfire in her blood, the anger so intense it was almost suffocating.
“That son of a bitch was supposed to have Jonathan’s back! Not fucking stab him in it!”
Her voice rose with each word, her rage boiling over, the memories and the pain making it impossible to think straight. She was on the verge of screaming, the pressure building in her chest like a bomb about to explode. By the time she managed to regain a semblance of control, Skel had his hands in the air, his eyes filled with sorrow and understanding.
“P, I would never do that to you,” he promised, his voice gentle, steady, as if trying to soothe the raging storm inside her. And just like that, the anger drained out of her, leaving her feeling hollow, exhausted. She could barely hold herself upright.
“I know, Skel,” she murmured, her chin dipping as shame washed over her. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to lash out at you. I know you’re not him. I’m just struggling, and I know that’s no excuse.”
“Bridge under water,” he said with a small smile, forgiving her with a simple phrase that somehow made the weight on her shoulders a little lighter. He paused, thinking for a moment. “So Reaper would have known the rules. He’d have known breaking the truce meant he didn’t get the territory. Would there have been any other way?”
“The only way he could have gotten his hands on my territory that night was to challenge me to a death match as well,” she replied, the words tasting bitter.
“If he was after Shadow’s territory, why didn’t he?” His question hung in the air, heavy with the uncertainty and confusion that had plagued her for more than a decade.
“Your guess is as good as mine, Skel. I’ve been asking that very same question for the past thirteen years,” she admitted, her voice tinged with the weariness of someone who had been searching for answers for far too long.
She turned away from him, unable to bear his concerned gaze any longer. Pulling her leather jacket from her shoulders, she retrieved her wraps from her bag and sat down on a nearby bench. The familiar routine of wrapping her hands brought a small measure of comfort, the tightness of the fabric grounding her, giving her something solid to focus on.
“Put my name on the list,” she ordered him, her voice devoid of emotion, as if she had already made peace with what she was about to do.
“What are you going to do?” His voice was laced with worry, but she refused to look at him, afraid that if she did, she might lose the fragile composure she had managed to cling to.
“I’m going to draw him out. If he is here, he will seize the opportunity to face me,” she replied, her tone steely, determined. There was no room for doubt, no hesitation. This was something she had to do, something that had been a long time coming.
When he remained standing, his concern pressing down on her, she finally turned to glare at him, her eyes flashing with a resolve that left no room for argument. “Go,” she commanded, and this time, he obeyed, turning on his heel with his chin dipped in a reluctant nod.
As he walked away, she returned to wrapping her hands, each loop of the fabric a reminder of what she had lost, of what she was willing to do to reclaim her honor, her brother’s memory, and perhaps, in some small way, her own redemption.
A few fights later, she was ready, her body ready after warming up and stretching in the dim solitude of the locker room. The adrenaline coursing through her veins felt like a living thing, and as she moved to the edge of the bleachers, she could feel the pulse of the arena, the crowd’s energy seeping into her skin. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with the raw excitement of the night, every cheer and roar pushing her deeper into the zone.
She stood at the edge, every muscle in her body taut, coiled with anticipation. Each fight before hers had been a mere prelude, a steady build-up that only served to sharpen her focus, to stoke the fire that burned within her. Her breath was steady, but her heart pounded with the relentless rhythm of someone who had been waiting far too long for this moment. Every second that ticked by,
every punch thrown by the fighters before her, fueled the rising tension in her chest. This was it—tonight could be the night she had been waiting for.
Finally, the moment she had been preparing for arrived. The announcer’s voice echoed through the cavernous space, commanding attention, and silence fell over the crowd like a wave. When he called her name, it sent a thrill down her spine.
“And now, ladies, gentlemen, and all those thirsty for blood, put your hands together for the reigning queen of the Quarry, Poison!”
The crowd erupted, a choir of cheers and applause that reverberated off the walls, drowning out the scattered jeers from those foolish enough to think they could take her down. The noise was deafening, a physical force that washed over her, and she welcomed it, drawing strength from the adoration and fear she inspired.
As she stepped forward, she let her gaze sweep across the crowd, her eyes scanning the throngs of faces with a cold, calculating intensity. She was searching, hunting for any sign of him.
Reaper.
The name that had haunted her dreams, the face that had been burned into her memory like a brand. She had waited over a decade for this, had fought and bled to keep her place at the top, all in the hopes that one day he would show himself again.
“Our queen has made an open challenge,” the
announcer declared. “Is anyone brave enough to step up and see why she’s royalty?”
The question hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, the anticipation almost unbearable. She stood tall, her expression a mask of cool confidence, but inside, her heart hammered against her ribcage, each beat a silent dare. Would he finally show his face? Would tonight be the night she avenged her brother, and ended the nightmare that had haunted her for thirteen long years?
She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her, could sense the whispers, the speculation rippling through the stands. Everyone was waiting, watching, wondering who would be foolish enough to step into the ring with her. But all she cared about was one man. One fight.
As the seconds dragged on, she tightened her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. If Reaper was here, if he had the courage to face her after all this time, she would make sure this night ended with his blood on her hands. The thought sent a surge of determination through her. No matter who stepped forward, she was ready to give them everything she had. But if it was him… if it was Reaper…
She would make him pay.
A hush fell over the crowd, the buzz of excitement snuffed out in an instant as they waited for a response, the tension thickening with each passing second. It was the kind of tension that prickled against the skin, like the
charged air before a storm, promising something explosive. Her heart thundered in her chest, the sound echoing in her ears as every nerve in her body went on high alert. She was poised, ready, every instinct sharpened to a fine point as she waited for the inevitable challenge.
Then, from the far end of the arena, movement caught her eye. A figure emerged from the shadows, pushing through the crowd with an air of arrogance that set her teeth on edge. He swaggered forward, each step deliberate, a cocky grin plastered across his face as he made his way toward her.
Disappointment tightened in her chest like a vice—it wasn’t Reaper.
The man who had stepped up was a brute, his hulking frame rippling with muscles that strained against the fabric of his sleeveless shirt. Tribal tattoos snaked across his broad shoulders, giving him an air of menace that was undercut by the glint of overconfidence in his eyes. He met her gaze with a sneer, his bravado almost laughable to her.
“I’ll take you on, sweetheart,” he drawled, his voice arrogant, as if he believed he had already won. “Let’s see if you’re as tough as they say.”
Her lip curled in disdain, a flicker of contempt flashing across her face. She said nothing, allowing her silence to speak for her. Words were unnecessary—her reputation had already done the talking. The crowd’s attention was fixed on her. They were eager, hungry to see
blood spilled, to witness the reigning queen of the Quarry put this cocky challenger in his place.
But her thoughts were elsewhere, on the man she had hoped to see, the one she had been preparing for. This brute was just another obstacle, another fighter to dismantle. She could already see his weakness, could read the arrogance in his stance, the way he underestimated her because of her size, her gender, or maybe just because of his own inflated ego.
Her gaze remained locked on him, cold and unblinking, as she sized him up. The crowd roared in approval, eager for the fight to begin, but she remained still, her mind already calculating, planning. She would make quick work of him, strip him of his bravado, and remind everyone why she was the queen. But even as she prepared herself for the fight, a bitter taste lingered in her mouth—the taste of disappointment. She had wanted him. She had wanted Reaper.
She took a deep breath, the air sharp and metallic in her lungs, and let her disappointment fuel her. If Reaper wouldn’t face her tonight, then she would make damn sure that when he did, he would find her at her most lethal, her most ruthless. This fool would be nothing more than a stepping stone, another nameless face in a long line of challengers who had dared to step into her ring.
With that thought, she shifted her stance, her muscles coiled and ready, every part of her honed in on the fight ahead. The crowd erupted into cheers, sensing
the start of the battle, but her focus never wavered. She was a predator, and the man before her was just prey.
With a nod from the referee, the bell rang, shattering the chaos like a gunshot, and the match was on. She launched herself forward, every muscle taut with the lethal energy of a cornered predator. She moved with a speed that blurred the edges of her form, her movements a deadly dance of precision and purpose as she circled her opponent, her eyes narrowing in search of an opening.
But this wasn’t going to be easy. Her opponent wasn’t just a brute; he was skilled, relentless, meeting her ferocity with his own. Each of her blows was met with equal force, and when his fist connected with her lip, the impact was sharp, a flare of pain that sent a metallic taste flooding her mouth. She could feel the sting, the blood beginning to well, but she swallowed the pain, refusing to let it slow her down. Pain was an old friend, a constant companion, and she had learned long ago how to harness it, to turn it into fuel.
He came at her again, aiming a vicious blow, but this time she was ready. With a quick shift of her weight, she ducked under his swing and countered with a devastating kick to his ribs. Her heel connected with a satisfying thud, the force of it sending him stumbling backward.
The crowd roared, their voices a racket that echoed in the cavernous space, but she didn’t let it distract her. She pressed her advantage, moving in with a flurry of
strikes, each one calculated to chip away at his defenses. Her fists were a blur, her blows relentless, and she could feel him weakening under the onslaught. His movements grew sluggish, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but she didn’t let up. This wasn’t just a fight—it was a message.
Then, in a flash, she saw it—an opening, a split-second window of vulnerability. Pivoting on her heel, she delivered a roundhouse kick that connected with his ear, the impact stunning him. He wavered, his balance momentarily lost, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, she struck. Her fists flew, each blow finding its mark with brutal efficiency, each strike driving him closer to the brink of defeat.
The crowd held their breath, the air thick with the raw intensity of the moment, as she executed her signature move; a roundhouse tornado kick. Her body moved with a grace that belied the power behind it, a perfect fusion of speed and strength. With a final, bone-crunching kick, she sent her opponent crashing to the mat, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
It was over.
The referee raised Poison’s hand in victory, and she stood tall, her chest heaving, her heart pounding like a war drum. The cheers of the crowd washed over her, a deafening wave of adulation that she absorbed like a lifeline. This was her domain, her throne, and she had defended it with every ounce of skill and fury she possessed.
As the announcer’s voice rang out, calling for the next fight, she stepped out of the ring, her expression unreadable. Behind her, the Don’s soldiers moved in, lifting her fallen opponent and carrying him out. Skel was there at the edge of the platform, his hand outstretched to help her down. She took it, her gaze meeting his with a wordless exchange.
“Any sign of him?” she yelled into Skel’s ear as they navigated through the chaotic energy of the crowd, the noise almost deafening around them. Her voice was edged with frustration, her words clipped and sharp, but Skel only shook his head.
“Fuck,” she muttered, the word slipping out before she could stop it, a harsh exhale of breath that barely cut through the clamor. She pushed through the door into the locker room. Her lip throbbed with every step, a dull, persistent ache that flared with each heartbeat.
Instinctively, her hand went to her mouth, her fingers brushing against the tender skin. The sting of pain was immediate, sharper than she expected, and she flinched when she pulled her hand away, seeing the smear of blood on her fingertips. The sight of it only served to deepen her frustration.
“You should have that checked out,” Skel said, as he nodded toward her lip. His eyes flicked to her face, searching for any sign that she was in more pain than she let on.
“It’s just a cut. I’ve had worse,” she replied
dismissively, her tone curter than she intended.
She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to acknowledge the discomfort. Instead, she focused on unwrapping her hands, the tight bandages revealing the mottled blue and purple bruises forming on her knuckles. The sight was almost comforting, a familiar ritual of pain and recovery that she had long since grown used to.
“P, don’t be a stubborn ass. Go and see Nick,” he pressed, his voice softer now, but firm. He wasn’t asking—he was telling. She could feel his eyes on her, the concern in his. But she wasn’t in the mood for coddling.
“I said it’s fine, Skeldon. Don’t push,” she warned, the words carrying the hard edge of finality.
She flexed her hands, feeling for any fractures, the discomfort a dull throb that she forced herself to ignore. She didn’t have time to waste on minor injuries—not when there were bigger things at stake.
But Skel wasn’t backing down. “Too late,” he said with a smirk, but his eyes serious. “I already texted him that you’re on your way.”
She shot him a glare, irritation and reluctant gratitude bubbling up inside her. Skel knew her too well, knew when to push her even when she didn’t want to be pushed. She sighed, the fight draining out of her as she realized that, as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Her body had been through hell tonight, and ignoring it wouldn’t make the pain go away. It would only make it worse.
“Fine,” she grumbled, her voice carrying more exhaustion than defiance.
Patting her on the shoulder, he headed back into the arena. She smiled, shaking her head. She knew he was only looking out for her, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have the cut looked at before it scarred.
She grabbed her duffle bag from the locker and made her way to the arena, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in her ears as she approached Skel again. The fight in the ring was brutal, the two men crashing into each other with a force that made the ground beneath her vibrate. She barely glanced at them, her focus shifting entirely to Skel as she joined him by the bleachers.
“You on the list tonight?” she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to the ring before settling on him.
He gave a slow nod, the tension in his posture speaking volumes. It was a subtle movement, but she caught the shift in his gaze, the way he weighed her presence.
“You need me to stick around?” she asked, turning her head to meet his eyes.
“You go and see Nick. I’ve got this covered,” he replied.
“Let me know if you hear anything about Reaper,” she added, her voice dropping slightly.
His chin dipped in acknowledgment, their unspoken understanding passing between them in a heartbeat. There was no need for drawn-out goodbyes.
They knew the game, knew the stakes, and knew each other too well to waste time on sentimentality.
She turned away, making her way back to the entrance, her mind already shifting gears.
“Jim, Bob,” she greeted the bouncers with a nod, their chuckles following her as she passed.
Outside, the night air hit her like a cold slap, but she welcomed it. She swung her leg over her bike, the familiar rumble of the engine beneath her.
With a roar, her bike burst forward, the sound cutting through the quiet of the night as she sped off toward the hospital.
The parking lot was mostly deserted as she parked near the ER’s doors. An ambulance’s siren drew closer. Its red lights flashed across the lot.
She entered the ER and almost got run over by Nick, storming out the door and yelling instructions to the rest of the medical staff on his heels. When he bumped into her, he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a once-over.
“Poison, sit,” he ordered. Thrusting her to the waiting area. “I’ll be with you in just a second.”
“I can go home, no worries!” she called out as he started running again to meet the ambulance.
“Sit!” he ordered, and she obeyed—sulking like a little girl.
A moment later, Nick and the ER staff came rushing back in, pushing a patient on a stretcher.
“What do we have?” Nick asked the paramedic.
“Male, mid-thirties, gunshot wound to the chest. Blunt force trauma to the chest and skull. Vital signs are unstable, BP eighty over fifty, pulse one twenty.”
She rose to her feet in a stupor—the tattoo on the man’s arm pulling her like a magnet. She knew that tattoo. Fuck, she had just received a punch from the fist at the end of that arm covered in tribal tattoos. How was this possible?
“Let’s get him inside, stat. Prep the trauma bay,” he ordered one of the nurses.
“He’s unresponsive, GCS three.” She watched as another paramedic, straddling the patient on the stretcher, held her ear near the patient’s mouth—her hands on his chest covered in blood.
“Start CPR; get the defibrillator ready. Let’s move people. We don’t have much time.”
And they disappeared into a trauma room. She tried to block out every sound, every sight, every smell—the voices inside getting louder.
Her challenger was bleeding to death on the other side of the door, and here she was, wasting Nick and the hospital’s time with a small cut on her lip.
Who the fuck shot him? And how did the ambulance get to him so quickly? He was just unconscious at the Quarry—the Don wouldn’t have called the ambulance. Gunshots were reported. The Don would much rather make the problem disappear than have authorities involved. A million questions swirled in her mind, making her dizzy, and she had to sit down again.
The clock on the wall above her ticked louder and louder, each tick like a jackhammer in her mind. The lights were suddenly too bright, casting harsh shadows on the sterile white walls. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing in her ears like a drum. The air felt thick, suffocating, as if she were trapped underneath an opponent, unable to breathe. Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of her seat, her knuckles turning white from the pressure—pain stinging the bruised bone.
Every rustle of fabric, every creak of the floor, sent shivers down her spine, making her skin crawl. She felt like she was drowning in a sea of noise and chaos, struggling to stay afloat. Her thoughts raced, the voices a blaring roar threatening to engulf her.
The voices called her name, beckoning her to allow the darkness to overtake her.
Poison. Poison. Poison.
“Poison.”
It wasn’t the voices. It was Nick calling her name, and she snapped out of it.
His weary expression softened as her eyes focused on him, kneeling before her.
“You alright?” he asked, pushing a stray strand of hair away from her face.
She pushed the thoughts of her challenger out of her mind. The look on Nick’s face said he didn’t make it, and she knew better than to ask too many questions—Nick would already be feeling bad enough as it was.
“I’m sorry for wasting your time,” she said and tried to stand, forcing Nick to back up.
“Nonsense,” he took her hand and dragged her off to the other side of the room. “Let me take a look at you.”
She reluctantly sat down on the stretcher he indicated to her, her head hanging low.
“You have far more important things to do. I’m really okay.” She tried to get up again, but a voice from the other side of the room made her stay put.
“Minke Vivienne Sloan, sit your ass back down this instant,” Nina ordered. The sternness in her voice did not allow any space to argue.
“You called Nina?” she asked Nick incredulously.
“Of course I did. The moment I got the message you were coming, I phoned her,” he answered, rearranging some supplies on a trolley.
She looked at Nina as she stampeded toward her, Demi trailing behind. She had the look of a disappointed mother plastered on her face.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because he knew you would try and get out of here before he had a look at you,” Nina answered.
“I drove myself here, didn’t I? That has to count for something.”
Reaching her, Nina pushed her head back with a palm to her forehead, examining her lip.
“One of these days, you’re going to get yourself killed.”
But she wasn’t listening. She held her arms open, and Demi ran into them for a hug. Holding on to the child, she looked over Demi’s head to Nina.
“Everyone has a line that was drawn for them. Mine will come sooner or later,” she shrugged, looking down at the little dark-haired girl in her arms. “Hi, Lil D. How have you been?” She pulled Demi back just far enough to examine her.
“I’ve been practicing my high kicks. Wanna see?”
“Dancing high kicks,” Poison told Nina, “We’re not practicing fighting.” She laughed and winked at Demi.
Nina just raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows at her as she pulled Demi back.
“As soon as you let Nick take a look, you can go.”
“Yes, Mom,” she teased, allowing Nick to clean the wound.
She tried her best not to flinch when he swabbed the cut with antiseptic. Looking at the three of them, she thanked whoever was out there for having them in her life.