Chapter 15 Sorcha #2
She feints high and whips a kick at my midsection.
I catch it on my forearms, absorb, and shoot forward, ramming my shoulder into her chest. We slam into each other, a tangle of sweat and breath.
I hook behind her knee with my foot and drive, trying to dump her.
She shifts, heavy and grounded, and answers with an elbow that snaps my head to the side.
Stars pop at the edge of my vision, and I stumble back.
She is better than me, and she is pretty fast. I am the underdog in this fight, without a doubt.
I know nothing about technical fighting techniques.
She launches at me, her fist like a block of granite, smashing me in the face before I can stop it.
My head rings, the crowd roars. I pull air in slow and deep and force the panic back down.
Don’t swing wild. Don’t chase. Make her miss. Make her pay.
She steps in again, looking to bully. I give ground two steps, let her think she’s got me, then cut an angle and whip a calf kick into the same leg I nailed before.
She snarls. Good. Again. I sting it and bounce out.
She checks late, annoyed now, and throws a fast one-two.
They both land, and I fall on my arse, shocked and pissed off that Annastasia is fucking beating me.
“Get up,” I hear Cillian mutter behind me. I practically landed on his feet. I look up and breathe deeply. He is ready to step in and kill Annastasia, but this is my fight. She might be technically more brilliant than me, but I’m meaner.
With a roar, I surge to my feet. I’m not giving the guys any opportunity to pull me.
I’d rather get stabbed and die than face the humiliation of this fight being forfeit on my behalf.
I can’t beat her on merit, so I’m going to have to play dirty.
Everything I learned on the streets, now is the time to pull it out of my arse and use it.
I will not let her beat me, I will not let the guys take this fight from me, and I will not give Annastasia the satisfaction.
She comes in tidy and straight, textbook guard, chin tucked.
I step to meet her and fake a jab at her face.
She bites, covers high. I stamp down on her foot with my heel, hard.
Her balance jolts. I grab her braid and yank her head forward as I crash my forehead into her nose.
My skull rings. Her nose explodes wet under me. Gasps rip around the Pit.
“Dirty bitch,” she snarls, half-choked, as blood pours.
“Correct,” I rasp, and drive a knee into her liver.
She folds. I snatch her wrist and twist, dragging her into the flagstones.
She rolls, fast, trying to get on top, but I’m already shoving my forearm across her throat.
She bucks like a bull. I ride it, sink my weight, and grind my wrist into her jaw hinge until her teeth click.
She tries to trap my arm. I let her think she’s got it and slip my knee across her belly, pinning her hip. I slam an elbow into the meat of her thigh, right above her knee. She yelps, wild now, and claws for my face. Her nails rake my cheek, and I grunt.
“Chick fight!” someone from the sidelines yells.
“Ugh, sexist pig,” I growl, shooting them a death stare.
The little prick shuts his face, but Annastasia uses it to slam her elbow into my temple.
Pain explodes. I blink hard and clamp down on panic.
I drop my weight, jam my forearm across her collarbone and drive my knee into the same thigh.
She grunts and twists. I hook two fingers in the corner of her mouth and yank.
She shrieks and grabs my wrist. I let go before she bites and crack my head into hers again. Wet crunch. More blood.
“Shit just got dirty!” someone else yells from the crowd. “Bets change to Gannon!”
That tells me two things. One, they were betting against me, and two, I can win this now.
She flips, snarling, and tries to buck me off.
I ride it and hammer a short punch into her ear.
She flails, and I shove my forearm under her jaw and arch up, crushing her windpipe against my radius.
She claws for my eyes. I bite the meat of her palm, and she screams, yanking back.
I switch grips, trap her wrist with both hands and torque. Her shoulder pops out.
“Tap,” I grind out, breath hot, sweat stinging my eyes.
“Fuck you,” she gasps, blood bubbling at her lip.
I twist harder. The joint gives another sick click.
The crowd goes silent. She spits blood in my face and tries to bridge.
I ride it out, dig my knee into her ribs and punch her kidney.
Her resistance starts to leak out of her like air from a tyre.
I switch again, slip behind, thread my arm under her chin and lock my bicep.
My other hand finds her braid. I wrap it once around my fist and pull, levering her head back while I squeeze.
She gurgles and thrashes, nails scrabbling at my forearm.
I tighten the choke and haul her braid harder.
Her eyes roll. Her kicks slow. Then nothing. Dead weight.
I hold for another heartbeat to make sure. Then I let go and shove her onto her side, keeping my legs braced in case she pops up swinging. She doesn’t. She’s out. Chest rising shallow, lips bloody.
Silence slams into the Pit for one vicious second. Then the place erupts. Roars, boos, laughter, phones up everywhere.
“Who’s next?” I rasp, voice raw, staggering to my feet, as Annastasia is hauled out of the way to recuperate.
The Pit goes still except for Ciar’s growling, “Shit.”
“Me,” a voice I don’t recognise says.
I turn to see a man at the bottom of the steps, in a thousand-euro black suit, if not more.
“Yeah? And you are?”
“Paddy O’Malley,” Ciar hisses behind me.
O’Malley.
“Let me guess,” I say as he approaches slowly. “Sean’s dad?”
“That’s right,” he says. “Are you going to give me the respect to take on my son’s killer in his honour?”
Despite getting away with this killing with the Garda, I know everyone knows it’s me. How I’ve managed to escape rock-solid evidence from being presented is beyond me, unless it was, and Ciar’s dad is just that good at what he does, and he is that invested in saving my arse.
“Who says it was me?” I ask, anyway.
He smirks.
It’s not a pretty sight.
It chills me to my soul. “I don’t need evidence. I need penance.”
The room tilts from where Annastasia headbutted me. I wipe blood off my cheek with the back of my hand and smile up. “Then you came to the wrong altar.”
He steps onto the flagstones, shoes too clean for this place. Up close, he’s even more menacing. The Pit closes in, the crowd greedily sucking up the tension.
Ciar’s heat lands at my back, a wall. “You don’t fight her,” he tells him, voice like gravel. “You don’t breathe the same air as her unless I say so.”
Paddy’s gaze flicks to him, then to Axl and Cillian bracketing me. “I’m here for tradition. She killed my blood. Blood answers.”
I drag Bessie free and let the blade glint under the crypt lights. The fire torches light it like a halo. The crowd hushes.
“You want satisfaction?” I say, lifting my chin. “Pit rules. No blades. No friends. You and me. Now.”
Ciar’s hand closes around the back of my neck, hot and grounding. “No,” he rumbles against my skin. “You don’t touch her.”
“It’s my fight,” I say, not looking back. “He wants me.”
Ciar’s fingers tighten.
Paddy spreads his hands. “As much as I would enjoy disappointing you, Miss Gannon, I didn’t come to beat up a girl.
Call a champion.” He crooks his fingers.
A shape descends the steps. As big as Ciar, but older, thicker through the neck and shoulders, nose flattened, knuckles like gravel. Old scars ladder his brow.
“My nephew,” Paddy says, voice cool. “You pick yours.”
Ciar’s chest hits my back, a wall. “I’ll do it,” he growls.
“No.” I step forward. The room tilts again, but I lock my knees and hold his stare. “He wants blood for Sean? He gets it from the person who took his life. Me.”
Paddy’s mouth curls, but he dismisses me. And that’s when everything Cian was trying to tell me rammed into my gut.
I’m nothing.
I am absolutely no one to these people. Nothing but a cunt to breed half-Gannons to add to their powerful names.