Page 45 of The Kings
The bell rings again, and I’m wheezing, each breath a razor in my chest. But when I look at him, slumped on the ground, I know I’ve got this. I’m battered, sure, but I’m nowhere near beaten.
Not yet.
“Next,” I growl, my voice raw power, ringing through the air.
They’re learning, one fight at a time: never underestimate Eliza Hughes.
Blood and sweat blur my vision, but I wipe it away, relentless as I lean over, fighting the urge to vomit all over the quad.
The wound on my side is definitely gaping open now, I can feel the sticky blood coating my skin.
Standing up straight, I grab the hair tie and pull my hair out of the now messed-up bun. Scooping it up again, I retie it, wincing as the movement tears into my muscles.
And then there is no one left.
Just me.
The final bell tolls, a death knell for the weak.
Swinging slightly on my feet, I see my opponent and nearly collapse. A colossus whose shadow swallows the light. This is it, the moment that will carve my fate into the annals of this blood-soaked arena. He is top-tier, and my guts curl up for a moment before I shake it off. His eyes are voids, abysses promising oblivion. But I square my shoulders and let a feral grin split my bloody lips.
Do this or die.
Or worse, see the disappointment of my failure in Dad’s eyes.
“Hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked by a girl,” I bark, every cell in my body igniting with adrenaline.
He doesn’t respond, just advances with the certainty of the badass enforcer he is.
“Eliza!”
Frowning as James’s voice cuts through my fuzzy hearing, I ignore him.
“Eliza! For fuck’s sake!”
Shaking my head, I move with a desperation born of necessity, each blow I take fanning the ones I give. I’m a whirlwind, a force of nature that refuses to bow, refuses to break.
At least I am in my head.
In reality, I probably look more like the walking dead.
Spitting out blood on the quad, which disgusts me, but I’d rather not swallow it, I duck lower as he lunges.
But I seize the opening and raise my right arm up. It connects with his throat, leaving him grunting and wheezing. This isn’t a fair fight, and everyone knows it. So, as far as I’m concerned, anything goes.
I pivot, using the momentary lapse in his defence to my advantage. My left knee drives up into his groin, and as he doubles over, I bring my elbow down hard across the back ofhis neck. He crumples like a sack of cement, and the crowd goes silent.
Leaning down, I push a stray lock of hair out of my face with a blood-stained hand and snarl at him through clenched teeth. “Never underestimate a Hughes.” I stand back up to full height, ignoring the scream of protest from every fibre of my being.
The bell rings out in the silence. End of the final round.
As I stagger, my limbs leaden yet unbroken, I know one thing: I’ve won more than just a fight—I’ve won the right to be feared, the right to lead. Eliza Hughes isn’t just a name; it’s a legacy etched in victory, a warning to those who dare challenge the throne I’m destined to claim.
Then, the arena explodes around me, a noise of cheers and shouts. They’re shouting my name, a reverberating roar that fills the space.
By stubbornness alone, I stay on my feet as my legs tremble, defiant in victory. Blood trickles into my eyes, but I wipe it out with my battered hand. I’ve taken their hits, their best shots, and here I am, still breathing, still fighting.
I drop to my knees, head hanging, as I just want to curl up and sleep for a week.
