Howly Talk for Their Mate

1. Sloane

ONE

SLOANE

The basement venue reeked of sweat, stale beer, and desperation.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the makeshift ring where Sloane circled her opponent like a predator studying its prey.

The crowd pressed against the chain-link barriers as the fight progressed, and their voices were a steady cacophony of bets and bloodlust that she'd learned to tune out months ago.

Roxy bounced on her toes across the mat, all corded muscle and aggression. She'd built her reputation on brute force—charging forward until something broke. Usually her opponents.

Not tonight.

Sloane kept her breathing steady and her stance loose as Tasha's voice echoed in her memory.

"Smart fighters don't chase knockouts. They wait for them."

But ten thousand dollars hung in the balance. Eleven if she could drop Roxy clean. The money would buy her five months of rent. New training equipment. Maybe even time to breathe without constantly calculating how many fights she needed to survive another month.

"Come on, princess!" Roxy snarled, feinting left before throwing a wild haymaker. "Stop dancing around!"

Sloane slipped the punch, letting Roxy's momentum carry her past. The crowd roared approval—half of them had bet against the newcomer who'd been climbing the rankings too fast to ignore.

Let them underestimate me. Makes the payday sweeter.

She'd discovered this world a year ago when desperation finally outweighed pride. A coworker at the nightclub had mentioned the quick money, and Sloane had walked into her first fight expecting to lose gracefully and walk away with enough cash to keep her apartment another month.

Instead, she'd won. Then kept winning.

The underground circuit operated by simple rules: prove yourself in the ring, collect your purse, and disappear until the next fight.

No false promises about futures that never materialized.

Just violence and money. And for someone who'd spent twelve years in foster care learning that adults made promises they couldn't keep, the brutal simplicity was honest.

Roxy charged again, telegraphing her combinations like an amateur. Sloane sidestepped, landing a sharp jab to her opponent's ribs before dancing out of range.

"Stand still and fight!" Roxy's frustration bled through her voice.

"I am fighting." Sloane's tone remained conversational, which only seemed to infuriate Roxy further.

The crowd's energy shifted as they recognized the pattern developing.

Sloane caught sight of Tasha in the front row, her dark eyes tracking every exchange with professional interest. Tasha never cheered, never showed emotion during fights—but her presence anchored Sloane in ways she'd never admit aloud.

Roxy's next combination came faster and more desperate. A right cross that Sloane ducked, followed by an uppercut that whistled past her chin. Close enough to feel the displacement of air.

Getting sloppy. Good.

Sloane countered with a precise combination to Roxy's midsection, feeling her opponent's guard drop as she doubled over slightly.

The opening lasted barely a heartbeat, but Sloane had been waiting for it.

Her right hook connected with Roxy's temple with a sound like a bat hitting a baseball.

Then Roxy's knees buckled. She swayed for a moment, eyes unfocused, before toppling sideways onto the canvas.

The referee's count echoed through the suddenly quiet venue. "Seven... eight... nine..."

Roxy's eyelids fluttered, but she remained motionless.

"Ten! Winner by knockout—Sloane Carter!"

The crowd erupted. Money changed hands rapidly as bookies settled bets. Sloane raised her gloved hands briefly, acknowledging the cheers without really hearing them.

Eleven thousand dollars.

Relief flooded through her chest, followed immediately by the familiar emptiness that always came after victory. Another fight won. Another purse collected. Another step deeper into a life she'd never planned but couldn't afford to leave.

She helped Roxy to her feet, steadying her opponent until the medical staff took over. No matter how much money rode on these fights, Sloane never forgot that her opponents were just trying to survive too.

"Good fight," Roxy mumbled, still slightly dazed.

"You too."

Sloane ducked under the ropes and made her way through the crowd toward the locker room. Hands reached out to pat her shoulders and voices called congratulations she didn't acknowledge. The attention felt heavy and unwanted. She'd joined this world for the money, not the fame.

Minutes later, the locker room door closed behind her with a satisfying click, muffling the noise from the venue. Concrete walls, metal lockers, and a single flickering bulb—it looked exactly like every other basement she'd changed in over the past year.

Sloane pulled off her gloves and unwrapped her hands methodically, checking for new damage. Her knuckles were swollen but intact. A small cut on her cheekbone would heal within days. Nothing that would keep her out of the gym.

Eleven thousand dollars.

The number still felt surreal. More money than she'd seen at once since aging out of foster care. Enough to stop calculating every grocery purchase, every utility bill, and every small expense that added up to constant anxiety.

She splashed cold water on her face from the rusted sink, washing away sweat and the metallic taste of adrenaline, and her reflection stared back at her—hazel eyes still sharp with post-fight energy, brown hair escaping its braid, and a face that had learned not to expect anything from anyone.

Twenty-six years of survival had taught her that money disappeared as quickly as it appeared. But tonight, for just a few hours, she could pretend that eleven thousand dollars meant safety instead of just another temporary reprieve.

Sloane changed into street clothes—jeans, boots, and a hoodie that had seen better years—and stuffed her fight gear into a worn duffel bag with efficient and practiced movements.

Time to go and disappear before anyone decided they wanted to discuss her future, her potential, or any of the other lies promoters told fighters who won too often.

The underground circuit had given her something no legitimate job ever had: the ability to earn enough money to survive without depending on anyone else's promises. And after a lifetime of broken promises, relying on herself felt like the safest bet she could ever make.

Sloane shouldered her duffel bag and headed for the locker room door, exhaustion settling into her bones now that the adrenaline had faded, and the door swung open abruptly.

"Well, well. Look who just made Roxy eat canvas."

Tasha stepped inside, her compact frame filling the doorway with quiet confidence. She carried a thick manila envelope in one hand, her dark eyes scanning Sloane's face with the practiced assessment of someone who'd seen too many fighters push through too much.

"Are you counting my money for me now too?" Sloane dropped her bag beside a rusted locker, though her tone held no real irritation.

"Someone has to make sure the promoters don't shortchange their best earners." Tasha extended the envelope with a slight smile. "Eleven thousand, exactly as promised."

Sloane accepted the envelope, feeling the satisfying weight of cash through the manila. More money than she'd held at once since—well, ever. But instead of relief, a familiar hollowness crept through her chest.

"Nice work out there," Tasha continued, settling against the doorframe. "Your footwork's improved since last month. Roxy never saw that hook coming."

"I know I could have anticipated her combinations better." Sloane tucked the envelope into her duffel bag, avoiding Tasha's perceptive gaze. "Got a little too eager for the knockout instead of staying patient."

"Exactly." Tasha's voice carried the tone of someone who'd learned these lessons through her own mistakes. "Patience is what keeps you on your feet and wins fights. Roxy's dangerous when she's desperate, but desperation makes fighters sloppy. You read that perfectly."

The locker room's fluorescent light cast harsh shadows across the concrete walls, making everything look bleached and temporary. Like her entire life.

"Speaking of reading situations," Tasha pushed off from the doorframe, "why don't we grab some burgers from Jerry's down the street? Celebrate your win properly."

The suggestion caught Sloane off guard. Tasha rarely suggested anything beyond fight strategy and practical advice. Their relationship had always operated within carefully defined boundaries—professional respect wrapped in mutual understanding, but never quite crossing into genuine friendship.

"That sounds exactly like what I need right now." Sloane zipped her duffel bag closed, surprised by how much she meant it. "I'm starved."

They soon walked through the venue's maze of corridors, past clusters of fighters and spectators still buzzing with post-fight energy.

The basement's stale air gave way to cooler night air as they emerged into the back alley behind the building.

Streetlights cast pools of yellow light across cracked asphalt, and the distant hum of traffic provided a steady backdrop to their footsteps.

Neither woman thought twice about walking through the alley.

They'd both survived worse neighborhoods and faced more dangerous opponents than any street criminal could offer.

But Sloane automatically cataloged potential exits while Tasha kept her hands loose at her sides—old habits that had kept them both alive in a world where showing weakness invited predators.

Suddenly, a black SUV appeared without warning.