25. Chapter Twenty-Five
The moment the world returns into focus, I know I’m fucked. She won fair and square. When my eyes open, I see Coach leaning over, examining me.
“He’s awake,” he tells someone, grinning. What in the Hells is he smiling about?
Groaning, I try to sit up. Everything throbs. The crowd can’t stop screaming my name and Kyrielle’s. If I were them, I’d be cheering too. What she and I just did was … unique.
That thought brings awareness to the bareness of my neck. No thick thighs squeezing the life out of me. I reach up, but she isn’t there anymore. Either fear or excitement has me looking around — I won’t admit to either.
“Where is she?” I ask, trying to sit up again.
Coach crouches next to me, supporting my torso. A headache like no other pounds inside my skull.
“Behind you,” Coach says quietly.
Everything swims when I jerk my head to find her. Wincing, I lift a hand to my forehead as I search for the color orange.
She’s sitting on her heels, grinning at a female fighter giving her water. Bruises are forming over her neck; shame overtakes the relief oft seeing her alive. I didn’t kill her.
The fact that I could’ve is terrifying. Each time I purposefully hurt her, a tiny part of my soul wept. Even when I punched her in the face, I was forced to halve the power so I didn’t shatter her skull.
Other than the bruises and raw skin, she looks fine. When her gaze connects with mine, Kyrielle flashes a smug grin.
Glaring at her, I ask Coach, “Who won?”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “It was a damn tie. You both passed out at the same time.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I growl. Renewed anger and fear dulls my pain.
“Afraid not.” He actually sounds like he regrets the truth. “I’ve already had requests for a rematch. That was incredibly impressive.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I grumble, pushing myself to stand. The seats are still full of excited onlookers, pointing and waving when they catch my eye. I ignore them, fully turning toward the bane of my existence.
I’ve never seen anyone so fucking pleased with themselves. Five questions. She gets to ask me five questions.
But also … she now has to submit.
This realization must show on my expression because the smug smirk fades. We’re both going to collect our prizes.
Coach claps me on the shoulder, unaware of the standoff. “You good to get home?”
A buzzing lights up my skin as I continue to stare at her. “I’m good.” Pointing a finger at the tangerine menace that haunts my dreams, I crook it, signalling for her to get that perky ass off the ground and to follow me.
Kyrielle hesitates for a second, brushing the sand off her sweaty body, then stalks after me. Passing through those wanting to congratulate us, I march to the door leading into the hallway. Glaring at the infuriating firecracker still smirking, I open the door and motion for her to step in.
Coach catches my eye before I follow; his head tilts in curiosity. I don’t care.
Walking toward the hallway, I lock the door so no one can follow.
“Well, that was fun—”
Before she can get another sassy, enraging word out, I wrap a hand around her throat, lift her small body, and slam her against the wall, cushioning her head with my other hand. She inhales sharply as I invade her space, shoving my body against hers to pin it in place.
Kyrielle lifts her chin, unafraid. “Come on,” she cajoles. “You liked it.”
My lip twitches, desperate to sink my fangs into the juncture where her neck and shoulder meet. The sound of her gasps would be so sweet.
“I could’ve killed you.” Every word comes out in a low, threatening growl. Why doesn’t she get it?
Again, this Fire Sprite only smirks. “We almost killed each other.”
Blisters in my mouth have barely finished healing from what she shoved down my throat. She’s not wrong. “You owe me a night of submission.”
“You can start now, if you want?” A groan almost escapes my lips when she grinds her hips into mine. Like she’s turned on. I know some fighters get aroused after a fight — she’s clearly one of them. The hardness of my dick confirms I am too, but she won’t be seeing that.
Not tonight.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” This time, it sounds like I’m pleading for an actual answer. I told her to forget everything. This is the very exact opposite of that. What remains of my heart can’t handle this. It just can’t.
“I want answers,” she says simply. “Also, I’m always aroused after a battle.”
I really need to ignore that last part. My hand tightens around her throat, but it’s a ghost of what I did to her in the arena.
“Why can’t you respect that I don’t want to tell you. Or anyone?”
“Because I know what it’s like to have your insides rot from the silence.”
Her words make my fury waver. That can’t happen. My secrets are impenetrable armor. “You don’t know anything about my insides. You’re projecting whatever it is you think you know.”
“I know you almost killed him when you were eighteen.”
The fight goes out of me like a candle flame blown out. In a low voice, I ask, “How?”
“A news report.”
Fuck. My teeth grind in frustration. The mere possibility of being seen, truly seen, makes me want to vomit. “Why did you go snooping? Why can’t you just … leave me alone, Kyrielle?”
“Because I didn’t push when it mattered most,” she whispers. “Orliana was beaten for over ten years, and I had no idea.”
Tears fill her eyes. My hand drops from her throat, easing her to the ground, but her head stays cradled in my palm. Her voice is barely audible as she says, “I want to help, Trinte.”
When a tear slides down her dusty cheek, I wipe it away with a thumb. Holding her gaze, I lick at the salty teardrop and hum with satisfaction. It tastes like the agony that’s enmeshed with my entire self.
Her expression heats. It’s subtle, but her hips jerk toward me. It’s difficult to not return the motion. Repeatedly. Naked.
In one last useless attempt at making her stop, I say, “Kyrielle, you don’t know what you’re fucking with.”
“I know,” she says, voice raspy. “That’s why I want to ask five questions — to find out.”
I search her face for a clue to any dishonesty or ulterior motive. No one cares this much about people they barely know.
Except Kyrielle does. She helps strangers all the time. It’s one of the many things I admire most about her. Just not when it’s homed in on me.
“When?”
She blinks, as if surprised I’m not fighting it anymore. “Um, whenever?”
“Ten years from now?”
Kyrielle’s expression darkens. “Don’t tell me you’re that kind of person.”
“What if I am?”
She raises an eyebrow. “I won’t submit until you give me my answers.”
“That also seems a bit disingenuous. You can revoke consent at any time. I can’t take back my answers.”
I watch her contemplate my response. To my shock, she says, “Fine. I’ll submit first.”
She’s supposed to refuse, and we part ways, forgetting about the bet. Not this. “What? No.”
It’s her turn to look surprised. “Why not?”
Now that I’m faced with the actual reality of any level of intimacy with her again, my instincts roar to run away. My heart is on a tripwire, ready to implode at the slightest poke of pain. If she or anyone hurts me again, I genuinely don’t think I’ll survive to see another day.
This moment has me so raw, the words slip out before I can smother them into obedience.
“Because I don’t think you understand how close I am to not wanting to be here anymore.
” I furiously blink away tears. Gently removing my hand still around her head, I step back.
“This is about survival for me, Kyrielle. Not stubbornness. It certainly isn’t because I haven’t tried to be close with people. ”
I let out a bitter laugh at the uncountable times I’ve tried. “I know myself, and I know that my breaking point is right over the horizon. All it’ll take is one more heartbreak, one more ruinous loss, and I’m gone.”
Devastation contorts her face. “Trinte, I—”
I hold up a hand, stopping her from saying more. “You don’t need to submit, but I’ll fulfill my end of the bet. Give me time to consider how to mitigate the effects on myself. But you need to respect the emotional tightrope I’m on right now.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
Leaving her in the hallway, I find my way to the locker room.
It’s blessedly empty. Locking the door, I let myself come apart, permitting a single keening cry into my palms. The conversation was so short and still felt like a verbal assault.
Terror, like I haven’t felt for years, rumbles back into life, shaking me to my very core.
I don’t want to look at it. Not a single disgusting, traumatizing inch of it. Each rape, each punch, each rejection, each betrayal, each loss …
It’s a mistake. All of it’s a mistake. Both of us will regret this. She just doesn’t know it yet.