Page 57 of Scorpion

Pretty boy over there hasn’t seen war. I doubt he’s ever killed someone before. Still, he’s lithe enough to be considered a threat due to his strength and speed alone. It’s only a matter of finding out whether his arrogance is founded or fuel from his ego.

Mathijs raises his hand once more to stop the few people screaming their support for the rookie.

“To my left, my guest.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and everyone turns my way. “The Deathstalker.”

There’s no cheer. Not a single whistle. The silence is so deadly, I’d be able to hear a pin drop. I’ve had reactions like this before because most wouldn't be able to imagine a woman stepping into the ring. Let alone against another man.

I stalk forward, avoiding eye contact with anyone but Justin. Men and women part for me. Their masks stare blankly, and their whispers feather over me.

The cockiness wipes off his face the closer I get, and the line of his shoulders tighten as he takes me in. Justin finally sees me for what I am.

A threat.

Chapter 15

ZALAK

My head whips to the side from the force of his blow. Blood drips from my lip and nose, but really, the other guy is worse for wear. I’m surprised he can see any of the attacks I throw his way when his eyes are practically swollen shut.

I kick my leg out, winding him at the same time I throw a punch at his good eye. The crowd cheers, screaming Deathstalker as if the name belongs to a god. I almost grin at Justin because of how poetic the situation is.

His fanbase turned on him. Even people I saw betting on him are yelling with delight every time I land a hit.

When the underdog comes out on top, one of two things happens: people either get really happy or come searching for blood.

I launch at him while he’s disoriented, laying hit after hit on him. He struggles to block a single one, bunching his shoulders and hiding behind his curled fists.

My initial observations were true. He’s fast, has an endless well of stamina, and can pack a punch. But his skills start and end there. His attacks are undisciplined like he’s learned how to fight by getting into one, rather than actual practice. But the asshole just won’t drop.

I growl in annoyance when he buries his knee in my gut.

Catching his next punch, I yank the cockroach forward and use gravity to take him down onto the floor. I hold his torso and head down with my legs and hug his arm, pulling it back until I hear a satisfying snap. He cries out and clamps his teeth down on my leg like a fucking animal.

Oh, so he wants to play dirty? Fine. I’ll play fucking dirty.

I yank the arm back again, forcing him to loosen his jaw enough for me to pivot and bring my elbow down on his crotch.

Panting, I clamor on top of him, only to grapple for dominance. We take turns having the upper hand, but he can only do so much harm with a dislocated elbow and crushed cock. Once I end up back on top, I waste no time laying into his face.

Like the goddamn pest he is, he manages to throw me off balance enough to stop an attack. Before he can do further damage, I’m on my back with his head between my legs, holding his good arm.

He tries bucking. Biting. Hitting. Anything humanly possible to make me loosen my hold on him. With each harsh breath that I take, the fight drains from him until he can’t do more than twitch. I hold on for another twenty seconds to make sure he’s out, then I push onto my feet to drop my heel into his throat with every ounce of strength. Tendons and ligaments bend and snap beneath the force.

I’m not about to choke him out for ten minutes to make sure he’s dead. Breaking his windpipe is the next best option. He’s as good as dead now.

I’m deaf to the roar of the crowd, but it doesn’t stop me from absorbing the energy from my triumph.

Look at me, Mom. It’s your favorite son.

I spit on his corpse, then stalk off the stage with a backward glance at Mathijs. I can picture him grinning like a lunatic beneath his mask, and the thought of it makes the victory of the fight sweeter.

The locker room appears exactly the same as how I left it. I help myself to the adjoining shower to wash the blood and sweat sticking to my skin, wincing when the hot water hits the open wounds on my face. It’s still bleeding by the time I shut the water off and wrap the towel around myself. I curl my fingers into a tight fist and swing the door open quickly in case anyone is behind the door.

There is.

But he’s no threat to me.

The stag mask is no longer on his head but on the bench against the wall.

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