Page 1 of Fated In Blood

1

EVANGELINE SILVERWOOD

What the hell was I doing?

Standing in the center of an underground, illegal fight ring, high on adrenaline, my heart hammering in my chest?

On the outside, I was the picture of calm, but inside, I was a shit show, my knees weak, palms clammy. Sweat pooled in the hollow of my back beneath my plain black t-shirt, soaking the waistband of my jeans as I wished for the hundredth time I had a choice.

The excitement buzzing around me turned to silence when my opponent stepped into the ring.

I used the termringloosely, since we were crammed into the ancient stone basement of the sleaziest dive bar in Thorndale, cigarette smoke clogging the air, tinged with the pungent aroma of nervous sweat and recently legalized marijuana.

The cracked linoleum floor was too stained to notice the still-wet blood splatter from the previous contest and the single flight of steps leading out was a fire marshal’s worst nightmare. Pipes and ductwork slithered between the hand-hewn rafters like snakes, and limestone block walls were covered with peelingbeer posters decorated with tinsel, a pathetic attempt at holiday spirit.

“Put on a good show tonight, Evie, and I’ll throw in an extra fifty bucks.” Vincent Valentine was even sleazier than his namesake bar, beady eyes shining as he slithered up to me in handmade red lizard loafers, which did nothing to distract from the matching silk shirt open to his navel. My boss was flying high because he’d finally blackmailed me into joining his underground fight club.

In truth, I’d gotten desperate enough to give into his demands.

“Sure, I’ll do my best.”

Yeah,I’d do my best to cut this travesty short.

My opponent preened to theoohs andaahs as he stripped his pastel polo off an impressively sculpted chest and scowled down at my scrawny, buck-thirty frame like this was some kind of joke. I smiled back, glad I’d worn my favorite boots tonight.

This was the same bland smile I pasted on my face every fucking night I showed up here in my sinfully short skirt for the past three months, tying on my black apron and slipping my blistered feet into towering black heels.

That’s what the college boys like, Evie, Vince pointed out, flashing his trademark slimy smile the day he’d hired me. The bastard patted my ass exactly one time.

I’d knocked him on his in return, which was the whole fucking reason I was standing here right now.

Because Vince had discovered I could handle myself.

Tonight, I wasn’t serving overpriced drinks to bloodthirsty spectators.

Iwasthe spectacle.

If I managednotto get myself killed, I’d leave the bar with information.

Information I needed desperately enough to take this insane risk and step into the ring with a dude twice my size, with fists as big as dinner plates.

But if Vince kept his word, every bruise would be worthwhile. That end goal fueled my rage and offered me something to fight for, not just against.

Chuck? No, Brad…no, Brock—grinned, his gleaming veneers blindingly white.

Fuck. I’d heard this dude’s name before, but like every other frat boy who crept in and out of this club on the weekends, he’d hit on me a few times and, from his sulky pout, still held a grudge I’d turned him down flat.

Payback, that dark glare promised, and my back stiffened when he leaned close enough for me to smell the whiskey coating his breath. “I’m going to fuck you up, bitch. Teach you the consequences of telling me no.”

My eyes narrowed. I’d agreed to this fight as a business proposition, but for this guy, our match was personal. Which made him dangerous and unpredictable.

Best I finish this quick.

Vince stepped between us, rubbing his hands together like two slabs of meat. “You know the rules at Valentine’s.” His leering grin revealed double gold incisors. “There are none.” Literally the same spiel I’d heard a hundred times and still, he cackled like a madman.

“Do me proud, Evie.” But he caught my arm, dropping his voice as I stepped forward. “Remember. Win and you get your answers, lose and I own you for a year. Chad’s out for blood. I hear the boy has a score to settle. Put his name in the hat the moment he heard you were fighting tonight.”

Of course, the douchebag’s name was Chad. And what a surprise he holds a grudge. Rejection was so hard to handle forthis walking red flag. Maybe it was time for him to learn that actions had consequences.

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