Chapter 43
ERYX
The cage hums with energy, the air thick with sweat and iron. Roman leans against the rail, still spitting blood from his win. Caine’s perched beside him, chest rising heavy, eyes locked on me.
But all I see is her.
Anastasia. Moya Vorona. My everything.
Pressed against the barrier, hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that matters.
And for once, I believe it. Things between us have never felt this solid.
She’s here. She came for me. My girl, standing in the crowd, giving me her strength.
For the first time in a long time, I feel truly untouchable.
I roll my shoulders, flex my hands. My ribs ache, but tonight pain doesn’t matter.
Tonight, I’m fighting for more than myself.
The last fight. My fight. Told them I was done after this one.
Across the cage, La Muerte steps forward, the black steel mask gleaming under the lights. A skull without a soul.
Under the harsh cage lights, his body looks carved from stone, all corded muscle and violence.
Black ink coils over his skin, jagged, brutal tattoos crawling up his arms and across his chest. A serpent winds from his shoulder to his ribs, its fangs buried in the hollow of his collarbone.
A skeletal hand clutches his heart, inked so deep it looks branded.
Scars crisscross the canvas of his skin.
Some thin and silver, old knife work; others thick and puckered, the kind that only come from fire or bullets.
Each mark tells a story, and none of them are clean.
The crowd erupts, chanting his name, stomping the floor until the cage rattles. We’ve been hearing whisperings of him. The masked death. No mercy, leaving nothing but carnage.
“La Muerte! La Muerte!”
I spit blood onto the floor and grin. “Come on, then.”
The bell clangs.
He explodes forward, faster than a man his size should be.
His fist caves into my ribs and I feel something crack, pain detonating through my side.
My breath whooshes out, but I don’t fall.
I swing back, my knuckles smashing into cold steel.
The jolt tears my skin open, blood slicking my hand instantly.
He doesn’t flinch.
A knee slams into my gut, folding me in half.
A hammer-fist to my back drives me down, the crowd roaring like wolves circling fresh kill.
But I won’t give them the satisfaction. I push up, spit copper, and grin through the pain.
“That all you got?” I surge, slamming my shoulder into his midsection.
His back collides with the cage wall, metal shrieking.
My elbow crashes into his jaw, my fist into his gut, knee into his chest. Every strike fueled by the fire in my veins, the thought of her watching, of winning with her eyes on me.
He answers with a headbutt that explodes stars across my vision. Blood pours down my face, but I don’t stop. I hammer him again, and again, until his mask shifts, tilting loose.
The crowd howls.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. She’s pressed so close to the rail I can almost feel her heartbeat. Her lips parted, her chest rising fast. She’s here. She’s mine.
I throw one last punch with everything I have. The mask snaps free, clattering to the floor.
Silence swallows the arena.
And then I see his face.
Recognition slams into me like a blade to the gut. I know him. Too well. My breath catches, but what guts me more is her. Her face goes white, her eyes widening, lips trembling. Like she’s staring into the eyes of a ghost. She stumbles back from the rail. Shoves through the crowd. Runs.
And then he moves. La Muerte doesn’t come for me. Doesn’t swing. Doesn’t even hesitate. He drops from the cage and bolts after her.
For a split second, I freeze. The crowd, the pain, the blood. It all falls away. Then instinct tears through me. I vault the cage, ignoring the shouts, ignoring Roman and Caine, ignoring everything except the sight of her vanishing into the sea of bodies.
If he’s chasing her, nothing else fucking matters.