Page 1 of Fight

Prologue

“Bitch!” the man yelled, lunging at the woman before the pain brought him up short.

He collapsed to his knees, then fell to the side, his agonized screams filling the small room. It was almost empty, the only pieces of furniture were a twin-size bed and nightstand that looked on the verge of collapse. The sparse furnishings in the room allowed the man to move without impediment.

As he rolled, his wool pants streaking with the blood that pooled beneath him, he groped for his midsection, then lower, his hands shaking with rage, maybe pain.

Probably a little bit of both.

The woman started on her knees and then leaned back to rest on her heels, careful not to touch the grungy wall. And as she watched the big man writhe on the floor, she only barely, barely, managed to keep the triumphant smile off her face.

This was going to end badly for her.

Very badly.

But there was a chance it would also end quickly, something she didn’t want to jeopardize over a few moments of glee, no matter how amused she was.

Besides, she didn’t have to smile.

Her victory was evident for all to see in the bloody lump of flesh lying on the floor beside the man. She noticed then how much he screamed, loud as if he had been gutted. The lump was a tiny thing in the grand scheme, but meaningful to him it seemed.

The woman shrugged internally.

He should have been more careful with it if it was so important.

She swiped the back of her hand against her lips, and then stood, though she made no attempt to exit. She could hear the lumbering steps as they got closer to the door and knew that in seconds, less, she would have to pay for this most brazen disobedience.

After a hard kick, the door crashed open in a shatter of splintering wood, and three men rushed in to survey the scene with weapons pulled.

“What happened?” the first one yelled.

“What the fuck do you think happened? That bitch bit me!” the man who still lay on the ground, rolling in pain, yelled.

The woman was marginally impressed. He had bigger things—smaller things, she mentally corrected, and chuckled again—to be concerned with. Yet, she marveled at how he managed to speak so clearly and insult her to boot.

The first man who’d entered looked at her, his expression a mask of disbelief.

“You bit his dick off?” he said incredulously.

“Only part of it,” the woman replied. “I tried to explain to him, just like I tried to explain to all the rest of you, that it would be in your best interests not to touch me. Do you get the message now?” she asked, unable to stop the defiant stance that her body so naturally fell into.

A moment of fleeting regret passed through her as she watched the men and saw the angry scowls that replaced the shock.

There went her quick death, a fact that was confirmed when one of the men lifted the gun he held and pointed it at her stomach.

Gut shot.

A terrible way to go. Of course it was probably the least terrible way these men could think of.

“Fucking whore,” the man said as he raised the gun, finger wrapped around the trigger.

The woman kept her eyes open. She wouldn’t close them and wouldn’t cower, not for him, not for anyone.

Not ever.

She braced herself, tried not to think of the impact of the bullet or how it would tear and rip her flesh, burrow through her body, maybe lodge in her spine. She also tried not to think of the agony that would fill her body as it bled itself dry here, in this filthy room, on this filthy floor, with these filthy people.

Tried not to think of where she’d end up, potter’s field if she were lucky, and she’d never been lucky.

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