Page 76 of King of Malice
If one of those jackasses on the other side of the field thinks I’m just going to submit to him, he’s got another thing coming. If he wants me, he’s going to have to work for it.
I give myself a shake. The organizer of this event told me that The Hunt was a way for me to rewrite my brain to respond differently to danger. To not react so violently, so emotionally.
But now that I’m here, I’m thinking, fuck that. I’m going to fight. My chaos goblin wants out.
I toss back my shoulders, getting ready, as a horn blast fills the air, the shrill sound so loud, for a moment I drop into a crouch again, holdingmy ears.
The sound slowly dies, echoing over the open air, replaced by the thunderous beat of men’s feet.
Despite my commitment to bravery, I shrink again, at least for a second. I’m tall for a woman, just over five feet eight inches, so cowering doesn’t help all that much.
Gathering myself up, I push my shock of red hair over my shoulder and move into the line of trees, jumping up to grab a branch and then swing myself up on the limb.
One of the high schools I attended had a rope-course adventure unit. It was one of the best times I had in school and I use the skills I learned now, settling into a crouch on the branch as the thundering footfalls of the men grow closer.
The man who agreed to let me compete, Dimitri Ivanov, told me some women fight, and some women hide, but all end up giving themselves to their chosen fighter. His words give me a one-second pause.
Am I going to surrender to a man? Try and set aside my past, ignore the restless energy inside me, and let a man claim me?
I doubt it.
Which is why, when a fighter veers toward my tree, my muscles tense, readying for the fight.
For a moment, I think he’s spotted me, but then he passes under my branch. I could stay hidden. Wait for one of them to find me, but that isn’t my style.
So, grabbing the branch again, I swing down, my feet slamming into his back as I push with all the weight and muscle I have. He lurches forward, flying through the air and lands on his stomach.
“Ha,” I shout into the night, adrenaline rushing through me. Fighting makes me feel powerful, in control, in a world where women are so often victims. Where I am a victim.
But either his fall or my gloating catches the notice of another man. Tall and broad, I no longer have the element of surprise.
And while I’m tall, I’m also slender, and no match for this guy in a one-to-one confrontation.
Unless…
I stand perfectly still, his advance making my muscles twitch with the effort not to move.
At the last possible second, when his massive hands are almost on me, I drop, punching out and hitting him square in the groin.
He drops like a stone, his cry of pain echoing through the field, but I don’t hesitate. Instead, I break out into a run, racing toward the field that the hunters have just exited.
But I haven’t made it more than two yards when fingers lock around my biceps in an iron grip.
I scream, a reflex I can’t control as the man yanks hard. I hit his chest, my jaw snapping shut, and I bite my own tongue, a cry of pain rushing through my lips.
But it doesn’t even slow him as he drops me to the ground, blood filling my mouth. He grabs the waist of my athletic leggings and rips them down my body.
I scream, paralyzing fear knocking the fight out of me. This was not part of the deal. I lash out with a hand, but before I can land the hit, he traps it in his, which is easily twice the size of mine.
I try again with my other hand, but he grabs that one too, pushing it up above my head with the other, like I’m not offering any resistance at all, and then locks both my wrists in his one hand.
Using his one free hand, he tears the leggings and then he starts to pull his pants down his hips, working his thighs between mine. “No,” I cry out, but my legs offer so little resistance.
This can’t be how it’s supposed to go. That I am forced to live out my worst nightmare. “Stop.” But the blood in my mouth gurgles my words. “Please stop.”
The please comes out jagged and raw, a word I don’t utter very often.
“Shut up,” he spits, grabbing my panties even as I gasp out a sob. He rips again, my underwear breaking like they’re made of paper.
