Chapter 35
Sorcha
Camille and I circle each other, two predators sizing each other up in the centre of the blood-soaked stone. The roar of the crowd fades to a distant hum. It’s just her and me.
A bell, rusted and ancient, clangs somewhere in the shadows.
The roar of the crowd becomes a single, pulsing entity.
Camille doesn’t wait. She moves with a fluid, deadly grace that has nothing to do with street brawling and everything to do with formal training.
Her first kick is fast, aimed at my ribs.
I twist away as it glances off my side with a force that steals my breath.
She’s fast. Fucking fast.
I dance back, shaking the sting from my side. Camille circles me, her eyes narrowed, her hands up in a classic boxer’s stance. She’s not fucking around. My theory about her throwing the fight feels like a flimsy, stupid hope in the face of her controlled aggression.
But I know I’m not wrong.
I lunge, a feint to the left, and then swing a hard right hook.
She ducks under it with infuriating ease, her fist connecting with my stomach in a solid, gut-wrenching punch.
Air explodes from my lungs. I stumble back, gasping, the crowd’s roar a distant, mocking wave.
This isn’t a duel. This is a fucking execution, and I’m the one on the chopping block.
Her eyes hold mine, and I see the flicker.
It’s brief, it’s almost impossible to understand, but it reignites my faith that she will throw the fight.
I suck in a ragged breath. The pain is a sharp, white-hot brand in my gut, but the flicker in her eyes is something I keep hold of.
She comes at me again, a whirlwind of calculated strikes.
I’m not a trained fighter. I’m a fucking survivor.
I duck under a sweeping kick that would have taken my head off and drive my shoulder hard into her stomach.
The air leaves her in a whoosh, and for a second, we’re tangled together, a mess of limbs and gritted teeth.
I get my knee up, slamming it into her thigh.
She grunts, a real sound of pain this time, and shoves me back.
The crowd roars, a wall of sound that presses in on us.
They want blood. They don’t care whose. I lunge, putting all my weight behind the punch.
She sees it coming, but she doesn’t move fast enough.
My knuckles connect with her jaw, a solid, satisfying crack of bone on bone. She stumbles back, but shakes it off.
Round two.
Camille comes at me again, low this time, a sweeping kick aimed to take my legs out from under me. I leap, a clumsy, desperate jump, and bring my heel down hard on her calf.
She hisses, a snake-like sound, and spins with the momentum, the back of her fist connecting with my cheek.
Stars explode behind my eyes. I stagger back, the coppery taste of my own blood flooding my mouth.
The crowd roars, a single, bloodthirsty beast. Camille doesn’t give me a second to recover.
She’s on me, a barrage of precise, punishing strikes.
I’m just a punching bag, blocking with my forearms, the impacts jarring me to the bone.
Left jab, right cross, left hook. She’s a machine, relentless and efficient. But machines have patterns.
I see it again. That fractional drop of her guard as she winds up for another kick.
It’s an invitation. She is skilled enough to give these cues, but I’m not skilled enough to pick them up.
She is practically begging me to take her out.
I duck under the kick, my body coiling, and drive forward, putting every ounce of my untrained desperation into a brutal uppercut.
My fist connects with her chin. Her head snaps back with a sickening crack, but she shakes it off.
Fucking hell, she is hard-fucking-core.
She shakes her head, a small, almost imperceptible movement, and a slow, bloody smile curves her lips. There’s no weakness in her eyes, just a cold, relentless focus. My knuckles ache, a sharp, vibrating pain that tells me I landed a solid hit, but it did fuck all.
She doesn’t give me time to process. She lunges, a low tackle aimed at my knees. I sidestep, clumsy and slow, my ribs screaming in protest. She adjusts, her hand lashing out to grab my ankle. I go down hard, the impact jarring my teeth. The crowd’s roar is a physical force, pressing down on me.
Before I can even scramble, she’s on top of me, her weight pinning me, a knee driving into my stomach. Her fist raises, poised to smash my face in. This is it. This is where she ends it. Her eyes lock on mine in a deliberate, held beat. A pause. A fucking invitation.
I buck my hips, a wild, desperate movement, and slam my forehead into the bridge of her nose.
There’s a wet, satisfying crunch. Her head snaps back, a surprised grunt tearing from her throat.
Blood gushes from her nostrils. Her grip loosens for a split second.
It’s all I need. I twist, bucking again, and roll us over, scrambling for purchase on the slick stone.
I straddle her, my hands wrapping around her throat.
Her pulse hammers against my thumbs. Her body goes still beneath me, her hands limp at her sides. She doesn’t fight back. She just stares up at me, her eyes dark and knowing, her blood a grotesque mask on her face. She’s giving it to me. The win. Her freedom.
The crowd is a single, screaming beast, baying for a finish. They want blood. They want unconsciousness. They want a fucking execution.
My thumbs press down, a warning. I could end her right here, crush her windpipe, and be done with it. But that’s not the statement I need to make. A choke-out is too quiet, too personal. This needs to be a public declaration.
I release her throat, my hands moving to grip the sides of her head.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a second, the only sign of her surprise.
Bunching my fist, I draw back and bring my fist down with every ounce of rage and desperation I have left.
My knuckles connect with her jaw, a sickening, wet crack that echoes in the sudden silence.
Her head snaps to the side, hitting the stone floor with a dull thud. Her body goes limp.
It’s over.
For a second, the only sound is my ragged breathing. Then the crypt explodes. A roar of sound, a physical wave of noise that washes over me. They got their fucking show.
I push myself to my feet, my body a symphony of screaming aches. I’m bleeding from a cut on my cheek, my stomach is a deep, bruised purple, but I’m the one standing. I look across the sea of faces to my guys and raise my bloody fist to them.
Ciar nods, but his face is one of sheer grimness.
He knows I was right, but he doesn’t like that I had to prove it this way.
If Camille wanted to win this fight, I’d be the one on the ground right now.
We all know it. But that just makes me more determined to keep training.
To keep honing my fighting skills instead of lashing out, trying to survive.
This isn’t the street anymore. I’m not the Red Reaper anymore, trying to create waves and make a name for myself.
I am Sorcha Gannon-Rhodes, Lady of Banbury, or some-fucking-where.
And now everyone knows it.