Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he arena smelled even worse than Mireille could’ve imagined. A nauseating stew of sweat, blood, cigarette smoke, and cheap cologne that had her wishing she’d gone with her first instinct this evening and just met Ronin at the Frosted Crystal after his fight like they’d agreed.
But she couldn’t help it. She was… curious.
Honestly, she blamed this stupid crush on her pathetic excuse for a love life. She hadn’t had sex with anyone other than her marks for decades, not since that disastrous attempt at a relationship twenty years back.
She and Josef had begun dating while starring together in Torvolde and Birgitta, a ballet that chronicled the star-crossed love between Syvalle’s first female warrior and the enemy general of an opposing army in the years before the Empire had unified the territories.
It annoyed Mireille that despite being the obvious hero of the story—and the only half of the duo to survive the final curtain—Torvolde’s name had been placed before Birgitta’s in the title.
The injustice didn’t bother Josef, a laid-back Windrider with an easy laugh and the most stunning abs she’d ever seen. Though based on the feel of Ronin’s beneath his shirt last night, Josef was about to be unseated.
The two dancers had enjoyed a passionate, months-long affair. Josef had softened Mireille’s rougher edges, had allowed her to be a version of herself she’d never tried on before. He didn’t balk at her dedication to her jobs, so she’d moved in with him.
She’d thought she’d found the love of her life.
A notion she was abruptly disabused of when she’d caught Josef fucking one of the chorus members backstage on opening night of the following season. Suddenly, his easy-going nature had made a lot more sense.
Luckily, she’d had the forethought to keep her own apartment. Also luckily, she was the High-Gods-damned prima ballerina, so she’d had Josef’s cheating ass booted from the company.
Despite her bruised pride and broken heart, the whole debacle had offered one benefit: the reinforcement of Mireille’s life-long belief that getting close to anyone, allowing anyone behind her walls, would only cause her pain. And even though she’d learned that lesson the hard way, she felt a renewed justification in her solitary existence.
She’d sworn off relationships since. And had vowed never to mix work and even temporary pleasure again.
Was she breaking that vow tonight by attending Ronin’s fight? Surely not. They were supposed to be lovers. How could it be anything other than prudent to learn more about him before they’d face the ultimate test up at the Cathedral of Bones?
She was already learning plenty from the crowd, who were in absolute hysteria over their Butcher. Last week, he’d handily won his bout against a hyena bi-form, but tonight promised much higher stakes. Ronin’s opponent, a Windrider from Brachos, was similarly undefeated in his home ring. The night’s winner would gain both a hefty purse of drachas and the title of cross-continental champion.
Mireille ascended the sticky concrete steps, boots squelching as she elbowed through the rowdy spectators. She’d hidden her signature tresses underneath a navy beanie, and, bundled within her gray wool jacket, she hoped no one would recognize her.
Not really the ballet crowd.
She picked her way to her seat, glancing down toward the current match. A female Deathstalker with two black braids had a female Windrider in a headlock. The bottoms of the latter’s white wings dragged across the cage floor, soaking up the spattered blood.
As Mireille sat, the male next to her shot to his feet, cheering at the Windrider bucking out of the Deathstalker’s hold, and his drink tipped off the armrest into Mireille’s lap.
“Sorry, sorry. ” He grabbed his empty cup, then patted at her crotch. With his bare hands.
She smacked his hands away with a soft snarl, and he turned back to the fight, muttering something that sounded a lot like cunt .
Definitely not the ballet crowd.
She pressed her jacket against her damp thighs, then swiveled her head toward the concession stand. The tangled mass of bodies flowing through the aisle discouraged her from fetching a pile of napkins.
The fight between the two females ended—the Windrider had pulled off the win—and the announcer, a walrus Beastrunner with hefty tusks on display, stepped to the center of the ring, silencing the spectators.
“Ladies and gentlemales,” he said into a floating violet disk that amplified his rumbling voice, “it’s time to crown a new continental champion. Are you ready?” The crowd surged upward, shouting and stomping their feet. Mireille joined in, politely clapping her hands.
“All the way from the windy wilds of Diachre, please welcome the brown-winged brute, the fists of fury, the beauty with the braids… Callum Maloney !”
A bulky Windrider with fleshy wings jogged into the ring, pounding his fists against his bare chest and roaring at the stands. His ginger hair was braided back from a face that revealed the sarcasm in the announcer’s nickname.
Callum Maloney was perhaps the ugliest Fae male Mireille had ever seen.
His black eyes bulged above a bulbous nose, his chin jutting forward in a severe underbite. He looked like one of those toothy, gelatinous fish that stalked the depths of the Sea of Thetis.
Jeers pelted Callum as he taunted the crowd from his side of the ring, bouncing back and forth on his feet.
“And now,” the announcer boomed, “the male who needs no introduction—but I’ll do it anyway because we all know how much he loves it—put your hands together for our hometown hero, the tattooed terror himself, everyone’s favorite white wolf… RONIN MATAKOS !”
Thunderous applause wracked the arena as Ronin sauntered into the cage.
“ Bu-TCHER! Bu-TCHER! Bu-TCHER !”
The eardrum-bursting cheers faded to a faint hum as Mireille beheld Ronin.
She was no stranger to chiseled males, fellow dancers who spent hours each day honing their forms. But their lithe bodies were marble-smooth—works of art.
Ronin’s body was a work of war.
A broad chest covered with swirling tattoos and tiny white hairs. Thick, sculpted arms capable of crushing a skull. Or cradling a female. Divine abdominal muscles, seemingly crafted by Vestan the Warrior God himself.
Mireille couldn’t decide what to ogle first. So she just ogled it all.
Josef had most certainly been unseated.
Ronin didn’t need to resort to his opponent’s theatrics. Dragging his gilded blue gaze across the rapturous crowd, he offered a subtle nod, then took his corner, the portrait of aloof confidence. He rested his hands on his hips, his fingers grazing those insane cuts of muscle that flowed into his loose black sparring pants.
Mireille unbuttoned her jacket, suddenly needing to cool her heated blood.
The announcer addressed the two fighters. “You both know the rules.” He paused with a serious look before he threw his head back and cackled. “There are no rules! Except for the one: no magic. Yes, gents?”
Both males affirmed, Maloney fingering the nessite-lined cuffs around his wrists. Not enough nessite to fully paralyze him, but enough to deactivate his wind magic.
“Then let the championship bout begin!” The announcer hustled out of the cage and slammed the door with a clang.
Mireille’s heart leapt into her throat as Maloney scrambled toward Ronin, head lowered as he tried to take him out at the waist.
Ronin crouched, bracing his feet, and his chest met Maloney’s with a fleshy smack.
The first few minutes of the fight were more like a dance, the two males meeting and parting, arms, legs, fists and chests colliding. Evenly matched, neither was able to land a blow.
And though Mirielle had never seen Ronin fight, she knew he was holding back. Saving his energy by letting Maloney come to him. A living example of ruthless efficiency . Vivienne would have been proud.
The crowd grew restless, screaming at the two fighters to quit stalling and start shedding blood.
Maloney rushed forward, arcing a hook that Ronin caught single-handedly before shoving the male away. Striking out with a wing, Maloney sliced Ronin’s shoulder with one of the sharp talons at its apex.
Mireille’s hand flew to her mouth and she emitted a little yelp, but Ronin didn’t even flinch. Merely shook off the blood before it trailed to his hand and affected his grip.
The next time the two males crashed together was far more vicious. Ronin landed a killer punch to Maloney’s temple, red spraying as his eyebrow split.
Mireille could barely watch, fingers wrenched in her lap, as the two males pummeled and ripped each other.
Maloney managed to get Ronin facedown on the floor, tearing apart Ronin’s back with his talons.
Ronin roared, and the heart-twisting sound tugged a whimper from Mireille’s wolf.
He bucked his hips and threw the Windrider off, and as he stood, blood gushed into his waistband. He bared his teeth in a feral smile, then lifted his palm to beckon Maloney.
More.
Maloney bolted for him, and Ronin captured the Windrider in his massive arms, then slammed him to the concrete. Maloney palmed Ronin’s jaw as Ronin squeezed his neck, attempting to choke the life out of him.
Ronin’s own face reddened, and beneath him, Maloney’s cuffs had lost their faint green glow.
He’s wearing fake cuffs , Mireille’s wolf growled. Cheating ass!
Mireille shot to her feet, watching in horror as Maloney summoned the wind to steal Ronin’s breath.
Ronin reared off the Windrider, then staggered to the cage wall and looped his fingers through the grate, steadying himself and clawing at his throat.
The crowd erupted into ferocious shouts, and the referee rushed in. Ronin held up a hand to stop him, and Maloney’s wind snuffed out.
Cries of cheater and disqualify him echoed as Ronin panted, never taking his eyes off his smirking opponent.
“You wanna finish this clean, or are you too chicken-shit?” Ronin ground out through serrated breaths.
There was no answer as the two males sprang for each other. The referee emitted a panicked bark before hustling out of the cage.
Fists collided with faces, feet cracked shins, and blood drenched the cage floor and walls.
A deafening crack sounded, and Mireille saw Ronin holding Maloney’s wing in a very unnatural position before smashing the Windrider to the floor.
Any doubt Mireille had about Ronin’s capacity for terrible violence washed away as he beat Maloney’s face into a bloody pulp.
She should’ve been terrified. Or at least disgusted.
Instead, her wolf howled with ferocious glee at Ronin’s psychotic, red-stained smile. Tingling warmth flooded Mireille’s veins before settling into a pulsing ache between her thighs.
Fucking kill him , she thought savagely, and her wolf yipped in agreement.
The referee burst into the ring, breaking Ronin’s trance. Maloney was motionless beneath him, save for a slight rise and fall of his chest.
Ronin pushed up, then stumbled backward, nearly toppling over before the referee grabbed his bloodied fist and thrust it upwards.
The crowd lost their fucking minds.
Mireille joined them, hollering and clapping so aggressively that her palms began to burn.
“Our champion!” the referee boomed, beaming at the stands as Ronin swayed unsteadily beside him.
As soon as the referee released his wrist, Ronin collapsed to the concrete.
And the arena erupted into chaos.