24. Zela
Saturday
Pissed is a mild form of what I’m feeling, have been feeling all fucking night.
How dare they turn my dad against me, twisting shit to fit their narrative and Isaac…
I knew he wasn’t on my side, knew he would pick his brothers as he should, but fuck, it still hurt for some reason.
Stupid!
As if the universe is in agreement, I catch a wicked right hook to the side of my head that has me stumbling a few steps before I manage to get my feet underneath me again.
Fuck, that hurt, but as I shake away the black spots that dot my vision, I got the message.
Fight now; be pissed later.
Or at the very least be pissed and take it out on Widow; she fucking deserves it with the smug smile I can see through the lower bit of her mask.
“Our best, my ass! You’ve never been anything more than lucky,” she hisses, but I barely hear her over the screams and jeers of the crowd above us.
“Green isn’t a good color on you, Wid.” She fucking hates it when I call her that, which is exactly why I've called her that for the last three years.
The sneer that turns her lips pulls a smile to mine as I move back around her, making her track my movements so as not to leave me at her back.
She might be a bitch, but she’s not that stupid, not that it will save her.
We play back and forth for a while. She gets a hit, and then I do as I tire her out, my stamina far outlasting hers, just like always.
As she tires, she grows sloppy, leaving more openings. I dip low, hitting her with a hook to the ribs before I uppercut her right to the jaw. The momentum from the hit takes her all the way to the mat, flat on her back and out fucking cold.
Bitch.
The ref calls the match, comes in to lift my hand, and announces my win as medics arrive to get Widow.
When I first started fighting, I used to feel bad for dropping people, but not anymore, and definitely not with her.
Besides, I really need to look at my face. I feel the sting of a cut in my brow, the slow trickle of blood running down my face, and judging by the throbbing feeling, I’m probably sporting a black eye or will be soon enough.
I move through the doors that will take me back to the changing rooms on autopilot, not even standing around for a moment to soak in my win.
I don’t feel victorious; I feel trapped. Even here, the one place that used to give me such freedom, a way to take back control, has lost its luster.
There is no safety, not anymore.
But maybe there never was; maybe it was just an illusion.
Maybe it’s time I let someone help me.
I resist the urge to yank my mask off as I throw my sweater over my head and dig my phone out of the front pocket of my duffel bag, debating for a moment before I say fuck it and type out a message I’d been wanting to send since last night.
Took a hit, and I’m hungry. Aren’t you supposed to be here to make it all better, or did I scare you away?
I hit send before I can overthink it, again.
Reed’s a big boy; he can make his own choices, and he’s been chasing me around for years now.
It’d be wrong if I never gave him a chance, even if it was only to see how he is in bed.
The door swings open behind me a second later, and the smile that had been pulling at my lips melts away. Reed’s quick, but unless he was already on his way here, that’s too fast.
“Good fight, Zela.” Isaac’s voice washes over me like acid on my skin, making me hiss as I spin to face him, not even attempting to hide my obvious disdain for him.
“Get out!” I point to the doors at his back, but all he does is cock a brow and piss me off even more.
My emotions get the best of me, and I’m across the room in an instant, my hands slamming into his chest and forcing him back a step. I hadn’t expected him to move, and judging by the look on his face, he wasn’t expecting me to put my hands on him.
Good, get fucked.
“I said get out,” I hiss and watch his eyes narrow before they drop to look at my hand that still rests on his chest.
With a growl, I yank it away, pulling back, but he doesn’t let me get far.
Quicker than I’d have thought possible, his hand whips out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist, and he tugs me back into him.
His other hand comes up to palm my mask as his eyes shine with something I haven’t seen before: indecision.
It’s gone as fast as it appeared as he spins us, my back hitting the wall hard enough that it knocks the wind from my lungs as his hand wraps around my throat.
“You're not in charge here, not anymore,” he whispers into my ear, his voice deep and husky as his lips drag over the shell of my ear.
I gasp and struggle, clawing at his hand as I try and fail to get a breath. I kick out and hear him grunt, but he doesn’t so much as move an inch as black spots begin to take over my vision, and I know I’m about to pass out.
“Get fucked,” I manage to choke out before I lose my fight and the world goes black, and just like that, I’m not Vixen but Zela, the poor, pathetic girl who couldn’t protect herself.