Page 75 of Deceive Me
“Ja. I want to see you fight Kivuli.”
Fuck. Not good. She looked at the enigmatic bastard standing next to her. “He must not value you much if he’s that eager to lose you.”
Kivuli didn’t react, not even the flutter of an eyelash. Mansa, however, laughed. “You think you are that good? Kivuli is my strongest warrior, but perhaps you can distract him with your…feminine wiles. Like your mother did me.” He smiled down at her, but those eyes—they weren’t amused. More like hungry. “And perhaps, if you win as you say you will, I could be convinced to use you for more than just breeding.”
There was a perverse eagerness in his words. She made sure her smile matched it. “You don’t want to use me for breeding.”
“Oh?” An arched brow. “Why not?”
Elliot stared deep into Mansa’s eyes, her father’s eyes. “Because if you do, you’ll never breed again. I’ll guarantee it.”
Kivuli shifted next to her, the movement grasping her attention. When she turned to look, she could see the tiniest hint of amusement in his expression. “She is indeed your daughter,” he told Mansa.
Mansa laughed, full and hearty. “She is, indeed.” And then the laughter stopped. “Proceed.”
Kivuli gave Mansa a slight bow, then backed away from the throne. Elliot found herself wishing she hadn’t been through a night in the ring and the confrontation with Kivuli’s men in the past two days—her body felt like shit already, and she had no doubt Kivuli would make her hurt much worse. Mansa hadn’t spelled out any limits, but he didn’t want her dead; that, at least, was to her advantage.
And looking into the inscrutable face of her opponent, she knew she’d need every advantage she could get.
Stuffing away the emotions rioting in her head, she let her body settle naturally into a fighting stance, her hands coming up. She couldn’t stop her heart from beating too damn hard against her aching ribs, but she could breathe through it. Kivuli’s gaze met hers, and he stared for the longest moment, not a flicker of emotion or intent in his eyes.
And then he attacked—or, rather, flew. One minute he was on the ground; the next he was in the air, his long leg sweeping toward her face. Elliot ducked, feeling the rush of air as his shin passed over her head. She followed with a hard elbow into the back of his knee, the impact increasing his momentum and toppling him toward the ground. He avoided her kick to the face and used a quick grab to pull her leg out from under her.
That wasn’t the last time she hit the ground either.
She had no idea how long they fought, the minutes blurring into the next kick or the next stab of pain in her ribs or the next breath of air knocked out of her lungs. The men around them circled closer, catcalling, egging them on, filling the air with shouts and bets and curses when they didn’t move out of the way fast enough. A few even attempted to grope her as she passed. That stopped the first time she broke a guard’s fingers. Kivuli actually grinned.
Then he tried to kick her teeth out. A girl just couldn’t get a break.
“I doubt Mansa wants me damaged,” she reminded him, a bit too breathlessly for her liking.
“He will do far worse damage, warrior.”
Warrior? Was she supposed to feel flattered by the…what could she even call it? Professional approbation? Yes, you’re a great fighter, but my boss is a practiced rapist, so don’t count on winning. Really? Where did men like them come up with this shit?
She thanked him with a fast whip around his back and a drive-by back fist to the base of his skull. Kivuli jerked forward just enough to minimize the impact.
Bastard.
The enforcer had seen her fight, knew she was fast and able to duck under blows and around kicks, but he didn’t know the endurance she’d forced her body to learn for years. Elliot allowed herself to lag, let him think her strength was waning—and it was, damn it, but not as much as she let on. Just how far would they take it before her father called a halt?
How far could she take it?
When she barely managed to avoid a kick to the head, she knew she was slipping too far. Time to end this.
Kivuli inched closer, seeming to sense a change in her strategy. A flurry of punches and kicks assured him of her aggression, but her true objective was the leg sweep she managed to sneak in. Kivuli grabbed her shirt before he fell, and she let him take her down with him. Even let him flip her so he could claim the upper position.
She’d spent so much time grappling with her teammates that Kivuli’s leanly muscled body felt weirdly light atop her. She managed to draw one knee to her chest before he closed the distance, and planted her heel in the crease of his hip. A hard shove of her foot forced him onto his opposite hand, his body off balance. That’s when she went for the knife at his belt.
Kivuli twisted his hip out of her reach. Still grasping, her fingers settled around a pouch attached to his belt. Elliot clamped down instinctively on the leather bag.
“No!”
But it was too late for him to stop her—the strings broke and the pouch came free in her hand. When Kivuli lunged for the bag, a panicked look in his eyes, she used his momentum to turn him completely over onto his back. Her knees clamped at his hips brought her with him.
His hard buck up almost displaced her, but that wasn’t his objective: he was frantic for the bag she held. Elliot had no more than a moment to wonder what the hell was so valuable before her free hand landed on his throat and she used the power of her feet, planted on either side of his body, to shove him backward.
Kivuli’s head hit the floor, his eyes still trained on the bag.
