Forsaking Midnight (Defying the Stars #2)

Prologue Lance

Prologue

Lance

The lights flicker when I’m about to lose a fight.

It’s not a mistake.

It’s purposeful.

That’s how things go in the fighting ring hidden beneath the Round Table Tavern.

The Lye.

They flick off, then on. Just enough to signal it’s time to take the hit and fall.

It used to hurt my pride, but pride doesn’t matter. Not mine, anyway.

I came down here to keep the people I love safe. I stay because they hold my past above my head. But someone’s always waiting, rich and corrupt, eager to bet on a rigged match. And the world people think they know?

It’s a lie.

Flicker.

Uppercut, jab, kick. Miss a block. Break a rib. Lose the fight.

Fight, dog, fight.

I steal a glance at the ringside between hits.

It’s hard to see through the cage’s wire mesh, especially with sweat blurring everything, but I hear the crowd—raucous shouts echoing off the dark, soundproofed walls.

Expensive shoes stomping concrete. We’re buried so deep underground the noise vanishes into the earth, as if it never existed.

Like none of us were ever here.

Flicker.

I grit my teeth. My opponent grunts, wipes blood from his mouth with his thumb, and resets his stance. “Come on, Excalibur, you piece of shit.”

The crowd screams, and I toss a wink his way, then crack my neck and bounce on my feet, fists loose in front of me.

Flicker.

Annoyed, I glance up at the lights, and on the way back down, something snags my attention.

No, not something.

Someone.

Burnt red and jade green.

A foot catches me in the ribs.

Pain spreads across my stomach. A fist smashes my temple and my vision blurs. I’ve been hit harder. Hell, I’ve been hit by guys twice his size.

Still, I can’t remember the last time I lost focus in the cage.

But there it is, that emerald color dragging me back like a hand on my collar. Warmth in an ocean of depravity.

There she is.

Calm washes over me, and I’m determined to figure out who she is when this is over.

An arm drops around her shoulder, pulling her in tightly—possessively—and my attention locks on it, the watch on its wrist glinting under the industrial lights.

I know without even seeing clearly that there’s a scar on that hand. One that matches mine from when we were eight and became blood brothers, slicing lines into our palms and smashing them together. “We’ll choose each other over everything and everyone. Forever.”

Arthur Penngrove.

The mayor’s son, and my best friend since birth.

What the hell is he doing bringing some woman down here?

Pain explodes against my jaw, like someone blasted a firework behind my eyes. My face snaps to the side, teeth clacking hard enough I taste blood, the metallic flavor blooming like rust on my tongue.

Fuck.

I surge forward, sending a quick jab, and he grunts, his head flying to the right, red spraying across the deeply stained concrete beneath our feet.

Cheers erupt.

Shit. I was too heavy-handed.

The lights flicker more aggressively now, so much so that even my opponent glances up. Just for a moment, the thought of defying them flickers in my mind. But as quickly as it comes, I quash it.

I don’t have a choice. So I drop my hands, just slightly.

Hesitate just long enough.

Leave an opening.

One hit.

Then another.

I go down on the third.

Fight, dog, fight.

The People’s Prince Turns Heads With HillPoint Grab

Arthur Penngrove: a name Rosebrook Falls loves. A name they trust.

And this week, that name landed squarely on HillPoint.

In a move that has half the town whispering and the other half pretending they’re not, Arthur has taken control of the Round Table Tavern after the previous owner defaulted on a loan tied to none other than Frederick Lawrence.

The deal was quiet. The impact was not.

One of Montgomery territory’s most recognizable landmarks is now Calloway-aligned, and to say people have noticed is putting it mildly.

Arthur insists the acquisition was “entirely aboveboard,” a phrase that’s been repeated often enough to sound rehearsed. Still, few are questioning him so much as the timing.

Mayor Penngrove wasted no time backing his son, praising Arthur’s “business sense” and his respect for the Round Table’s legacy.

That hasn’t stopped whispers about the WayMont Compact, the agreement that’s kept Calloway and Montgomery ownership in careful balance for decades.

The mayor’s office pointed to clauses allowing private sales and emphasized, again, that the mayor himself isn’t bound by any family arrangement, nor is his son.

For now, the Round Table has a new hand at the helm, and Arthur Penngrove’s star shows no signs of dimming.

The Rag will be watching. You can count on it.

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