Chapter 25 Violet #2
A grin stretches across my lips as I turn away, bounding down the rest of the stairs and into the biggest crowd I’ve ever seen here. Bodies surround the ring shoulder to shoulder, heat and noise crashing over me all at once. The energy is feral, and I sink into it immediately.
This is my element.
This is where I come alive.
Char peels off toward the bar for another drink while I claim a spot near the edge of the crowd to watch the opening fights– smaller matches aimed to rile everyone up before the Gauntlet officially gets underway.
“You’ll never believe what I just heard,” Char gushes when she reappears with a spiked seltzer clutched in her hand.
“What?” I ask, eyes still tracking the fighters in the ring.
She leans in close, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Rumor has it Rogue’s in the crowd tonight.”
“What?” I bark, jerking back and blinking at her. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” she laughs, already scanning the masses. “Maybe rebel leaders like to have fun once in a while, too. Tell me if you spot him.”
I follow her gaze, sweeping the crowd, but I don’t see the elusive masked leader of the resistance anywhere. And unlike Char, I’m decidedly not thrilled by the possibility of his presence. The last time I was in a room with that guy, it didn’t end particularly well for me.
The first fight finishes and another kicks off– two guys I don’t recognize, both solid but nothing special. The crowd roars as they circle each other, throwing sloppy punches and grappling for position. It’s over in the second round when one of them gets locked in a chokehold and taps out.
Char leans in close, shouting over the noise. “You nervous?”
“Nah,” I lie, adrenaline already flooding my system. “Just ready.”
Three more fights pass in a blur of blood, sweat, and cheers before the announcer finally steps into the ring, microphone in hand. His voice booms from the speakers, cutting clean through the noise.
“Alright, alright, settle down!” he calls, grinning like he knows exactly what chaos he’s about to unleash. “It’s almost time for the main event. The Gauntlet qualifier rounds!”
The place goes absolutely insane. People scream, stomp, and pump their fists in the air, howling for violence. This is what they came for.
This is what I came for.
The announcer produces a deck of cards, each one stamped with a fighter’s name. “You know the drill,” he shouts. “We draw two cards, and those fighters go head-to-head. Single round. No time limit. End by tap-out or knockout. Winner moves on, loser goes home.”
My heart hammers harder against my ribs, palms slick with sweat.
He shuffles the deck with exaggerated flair, milking the moment, then draws the first card and lifts it high.
“The Slay!”
The crowd erupts, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.
First fight.
First fucking fight.
Char screams and grabs my arm, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “First draw!”
Why she’s so damn thrilled about this is beyond me. We don’t even know who my opponent is yet.
The announcer reaches back into the deck and pulls the second card. “Versus… Reaper!”
Shit.
If the crowd wasn’t already losing their damn minds, they are now. Everybody knows Reaper. He’s vicious– all raw power and zero mercy. He’s got at least eighty pounds on me, most of it muscle, and a reputation for breaking bones just for the fun of it.
But I didn’t come here to back down.
“Better get changed,” I tell Char, clapping a hand down on her shoulder. “Bet big on me, yeah?”
“Always do,” she sing-songs.
I slip my roll of cash out of my bra and slyly pass it to her before peeling away and threading my way through the crowd. It’s most of what I have left, but I’m confident I’ll be going home with a hell of a lot more after I win the Gauntlet. Betting on myself is a sure thing.
The announcer keeps pulling cards for the other first-round matchups, the noise fading behind me as I head for the locker rooms at the back– though calling them locker rooms is generous.
There’s one for guys, one for girls, and no actual lockers or showers.
Each is just a narrow, damp room with a long bench for fighters to dump their bags and a lone toilet at the far end.
The women’s room is empty when I step inside, though a couple of bags are already scattered along the bench. I claim an open spot and toss mine down, peeling off my leather pants.
Cute for watching a fight, not for participating in one.
I swap them for a pair of black spandex booty shorts and a black sports bra with SLAY emblazoned across my tits in silver glitter. The sparkle was Char’s idea, obviously, but I can’t deny how good it looks under the fluorescents.
I barely finish stuffing my clothes back into my bag when the door swings open and one of the tournament ring girls pokes her head inside.
“Ready?” she asks.
I nod, reaching up to twist my ponytail into a tight bun and securing it with another hair tie. Don’t wanna give my opponent a rope to grab onto. Then I straighten, rolling my shoulders as I feel that familiar pre-fight calm settle over me like armor.
The girl nods and ducks out, and I wait.
The opening of Nightmare by Halsey slams through the speakers, and I push out the door and into a wall of sound.
The crowd is screaming, but I keep my head high and my eyes forward as I strut to the ring.
I don’t scan the audience. Don’t look for faces.
My focus stays locked on the ring ahead of me as I climb up and step inside.
By the time my feet hit the mat, the noise has dulled to a distant roar. Everything sharpens, narrowing to a single point.
Me.
This ring.
What comes next.
The song cuts, replaced by another surge of bass as Reaper makes his entrance. The crowd’s attention shifts, the energy twisting, but I don’t watch his advance. Not until he climbs into the ring across from me.
He’s exactly as intimidating as I remember– tall and broad-shouldered, his shaved head gleaming under the lights and a scythe tattoo blazing up his neck like a warning. He cracks his knuckles and grins at me, all teeth and bad intentions.
“You sure you wanna do this, little girl?” he taunts.
I don’t bother responding. Words are wasted energy.
The ref steps between us, running through the rules. No biting. No eye-gouging. Tap out or pass out. Standard stuff that indicates he’s there to stop deaths, not prevent damage.
Once we confirm we’re ready, he steps back and raises his hand.
“Fight!”
Reaper comes at me fast, closing the distance with a few long strides and throwing a heavy right hook aimed at my jaw.
I slip it, ducking under his arm and pivoting cleanly out of range.
He’s strong, but he’s also predictable. I’ve watched him fight before.
He likes to brawl, to overpower his opponents with brute force.
I’m not going to let him.
He resets, circling, and I mirror him, staying light on my feet. He fakes left, then lunges with a kick aimed at my ribs. I catch it on my forearm, the impact jarring but manageable, and counter with a quick jab to his face that snaps his head back.
His lip splits, red blooming against his skin and coating his teeth as his grin turns feral.
First blood.
“There we go,” he growls, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “She likes it rough.”
Fucking ew.
He rushes me again, this time shooting for a takedown. I sprawl hard, throwing my hips back and driving my weight down onto his shoulders. He’s strong, but I’m fast. I break free, reset, and land a hard kick to his thigh that makes him stumble.
The crowd is screaming, the noise deafening, but I barely hear it.
I’m already three moves ahead.
We exchange strikes– his hooks wild and heavy, mine precise and targeted. I’m landing more hits, but he only needs one good shot to end this. I feel the difference in our power every time he connects, his fists like hammers crashing into bone.
One slips through.
An uppercut snaps my head back, rattling my teeth, and I taste copper.
Focus.
I shake it off and circle out, forcing my feet to keep moving while my vision clears. I focus on my breathing, waiting for my opening.
He comes in again, overcommitting to a haymaker, and I see it– the gap in his defense, his ribs exposed for a split second. I step in and drive my knee into his side, hard and fast. He grunts, folding just enough for me to follow up with an elbow to the side of his head.
Reaper drops.
Not out, but down on one knee, breathing hard. I back off, chest heaving, hands loose but ready as he drags himself upright.
My arms are shaking now, adrenaline crashing through me in waves. The hit slowed him down, but he’s not finished. Neither am I.
We collide again, trading blows with everything we’ve got left. My muscles burn, my lungs scream, but I can see in his eyes that he’s fading. Shit, I might actually take this.
We break apart, circling, both of us buying a heartbeat to catch our breath.
And then something pulls my focus.
My inner wolf surges, sharp and sudden, a familiar flare igniting in my chest. I glance out over the crowd without meaning to, and that’s when I see him.
Kane.
He’s standing near the back, arms crossed over his chest, expression carved from stone beneath the brim of a dark baseball cap. Those intense eyes are locked on me, dark and burning, and for half a second, the entire world tilts.
What the fuck is he doing here?
My brain short-circuits, shock freezing me in place.
And that’s when Reaper hits me.
His fist crashes into the side of my head, the impact brutal and disorienting. Stars explode across my vision, my ears ringing as pain detonates through my skull. I hit the mat hard, dropping to my hands and knees, blinking through the haze.
When I lift my head and look out into the crowd again, Kane’s already moving, cutting through the masses toward the ring with murder in his eyes.