Page 3 of Knuckles & Knives
Perfect.
I’ve never liked easy fights anyway.
The prep area is a cramped space behind the main floor where fighters wrap their hands and psych themselves up for battle. I’m alone except for a battered punching bag and the distant roar of the crowd. Time for me to steal a moment to center myself.
I think about my father’s face the last time I saw him alive. He wasn’t the kind of man to smile often, reserving them for me most of all, and his smile then has stuck through me all of these years, and his promise… It had been full of shit. “Everything will be all right.”
They haven’t been, but they will be soon.
I can still hear the sound of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder. I dreamed about them far too often these past five years I’ve spent training, planning, and preparing for this moment.
“Time to reclaim the shadows,” I whisper to myself, flexing my fingers as I finish wrapping my hands.
When I step out of the prep area and toward the cage, the crowd’s reaction is immediate and mixed. Some laugh, a handful cheer, and several look genuinely concerned for my safety. I ignore them all, focused entirely on the man waiting for me in the center of the ring.
Ghost Rivera looks even more formidable up close. His lean frame is deceptively powerful, and those intricate tattoos seem to shift and flow in the changing light. When our eyes meet across the cage, I see intelligence there along with the predatory focus of a natural fighter.
“You sure about this,princesa?” he asks as the referee goes through the standard pre-fight routine. His voice carries a hint of an accent and genuine concern. “I don’t like hitting pretty girls.”
“Don’t worry,” I reply, settling into my fighting stance. “I hit back.”
The bell rings, and everything else fades away. The crowd, the danger, and my complicated history don’t matter now. There’s only the fight, the dance of violence that I’ve trained for every day since I was eighteen years old.
Ghost comes at me fast, testing my defenses with a series of quick jabs. I slip most of them but let one graze my cheek to get a feel for his power. He’s strong but not overwhelmingly so. Technical rather than brutal. Although he could be holding back because I’m a “pretty girl…” I refuse to underestimate anyone.
I counter with a combination that forces him to backpedal, and I catch a flash of surprise in his eyes.
That’s right. I’m not what you expected.
We circle each other like predators, each looking for an opening. He’s patient and methodical, waiting for me to make a mistake, but I know how to be patient too.
When he finally commits to a serious attack, I’m ready. I slip his right cross and drive my elbow toward his ribs. At the last second, he twists away and catches my wrist.
For a heartbeat, we’re locked together, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes and smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat and adrenaline.
“Interesting technique,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost appreciative in his voice.
He tries to use our proximity to drive a knee toward my midsection, but I twist away and rake my knuckles across his ribs as we separate, earning a sharp intake of breath.
The fight continues for two more rounds, neither of us able to gain a decisive advantage. Ghost is skilled and experienced, but I have desperation forged into diamond-hard purpose. Every block, every strike, every breath is fueled by five years of rage and planning.
This fight is not only about proving myself to everyone else but also to prove myself to me.
In the final round, I see my opening. Ghost telegraphs a left hook just slightly, and I duck under it to drive my fist into his solar plexus. The blow doubles him over, and I follow up with an uppercut that snaps his head back.
He goes down hard, and the crowd erupts.
I stand over Ghost’s unconscious form, my chest heaving, knuckles burning, and heart pounding with more than just exertion. Around me, the crowd is a mix of shocked silence and explosive cheering. Money changes hands, and I can feel the weight of dozens of calculating stares.
But there’s only one gaze that matters right now. I risk looking up at the VIP section and lock eyes with Kieran Frost. His ice-blue stare is unreadable, but I can see the wheels turning behind his perfect features. He knows who I am now. They all do.
Let the games begin.
As I climb out of the cage, Dom is waiting for me with a towel and an expression caught between pride and exasperation.
“Feel better?” he asks dryly.
I accept the towel and wipe the sweat from my face, tasting copper where Ghost’s lucky punch split my lip. “I’m just getting started.”
