Page 43 of The Kings
“Ooh,” Oliver murmurs. “This should be good.”
Leading the way across campus, my boots thud against the cool concrete as I stride into the quad, all set out like an arena with practically the entire University crowded around the edges, some with drinks and picnics, others with their books as if it’s going to be a bore-fest. I’ll make sure it’s not.
I have to wonder about the timing of it, though. Dad must’ve known that it was today and that calling me back to the house, two hours away, was going to give me zero time to prepare.
“Sounds about right,” I mutter, taking my leather jacket off and handing it to Oliver. I’m dressed in black jeans and a black vest top, plus my combat boots, so I’m good to go, but my muscles need a stretch first.
The murmurs of the crowd are a weight of expectation. Eyes track my every movement, and I know they’re sizing me up, wondering if the Hughes heiress has got more than just a pretty face and a sharp tongue and the stamina to run the gauntlet in record time. I pull my shoulders back, spine straight as a blade, and let a slow, wicked grin spread across my lips. Let them look. Let them see what real power looks like.
“Ready to kick ass and take names?”
I look at Raph. “Always, baby.”
He grins and grabs me, devouring my mouth with a fierce kiss that has the people nearby muttering about. When he lets me go, I step into the ring and pull a hairband out of my backpocket. Twirling my chestnut hair up into a bun so it’s less likely to be used as a weapon against me, I nod to the guy with the loudspeaker and take my place in line with the other challengers. Eyeing them up, I frown. This isn’t an equal fight. I’ll massacre the lot of them, and they all know it. They’re giving me uneasy stares and shifting with nerves. Frowning over the crowd, I catch Imogen nearby. She grins and gives me two thumbs up. Smiling, I nod once and then focus.
This is going to be a cakewalk.
The bell rings to signify round one.
Showtime.
“Eliza Hughes, you’re up.”
I take a step forward, expecting another name to be called up of my opponent, but there is nothing but the cheers from the crowd.
“This isn’t right,” I murmur and turn around. “Oh, I see.”
The brute in front of me is big, muscles like coiled steel beneath his skin. He is not a student; he is current gen mafia, but I think he is low-level. I’m figuring this shit out fast. We aren’t competing against each other, we are competing against real-world thugs, and I’m guessing the deeper we get into this contest, the more hardass the opponents will be.
No worries, though. I can do this. My fists are ready, my mind sharp as a blade. This is what I’ve trained for.
Raising my hands up into loose fists, I start to move. I’ve done this a thousand times, and my dad is way tougher than this goon.
“Begin!”
The loudspeaker shrieks, and we all cringe, but it’s game on.
“Come on then!” I taunt as he lunges, ducking a swing that could knock out a horse. The crowd’s roar is a distant thunder; all my senses honed in on this prick trying to take me down.
He grunts, throwing another punch, but I’m already moving, a ghost in combat boots. I counter with a jab to his ribs, eyes scanning for that split-second opening. My body moves with a grace born from years of strict training, each strike a calculated risk.
Thank you, Dad.
I can’t afford to slip up, not when every hit has to count.
He charges like a bull, and I sidestep, a dancer spinning away from danger. Our grapple is fierce, his strength against mine, a test of wills under the spotlight. But I would rather die than buckle. Not now, not ever.
Spotting the briefest falter in his stance, with a burst of speed, I exploit the gap, driving my elbow into his jaw. His head snaps back, and he stumbles before dropping on his ass.
Nodding as the commentator calls for the end of round one, I’ve barely even broken a sweat. But I’m not arrogant enough to think this isn’t going to get a lot tougher.
As I sit on the sidelines, taking note of my fellow students’ moves, as some get knocked out and some do the knocking, it’s my turn again.
I square off against a man in front of me who looks like he would gut me without blinking. The bell rings, and it’s like a gunshot to start us off—no hesitation, just raw power clashing in the centre of the arena. This guy’s fists are like hammers, but I’ve been dodging sledgehammers since I could walk.
“Come on, big guy,” I taunt, weaving under his arm and landing a solid hook to his side. He grunts, the sound echoing around the arena. But he’s quick for his size, retaliating with a swipe that I can’t avoid. His fist slams into my side, the one with the healing wound, and I gasp as white-hit pain rockets through me. I feel the scabs pull, and I know without looking it’s opened up. Raph is going to have my ass for this now.
Like he didn’t before.
