Page 2 of Immortal Throne

A sense of foreboding swept over me, my internal warning system blaring full alert. At the same time, images of a heart-wrenching past crashed down around me. My mother’s face floated to the surface, her cheeks sunken in, purple darkening the skin around her eyes. No longer the hardass woman who’d never hesitated to speak her mind—she became a shell of herself at the end. Barely the person who’d raised me off two minimum wage jobs and rice and beans for dinner. I’d never known someone as hardworking and determined as her, and when I had to hold her hand that final time in the hospital, I couldn’t believe she was gone.

Devastated didn’t come close to describing my emotional state.

It had always been me and her against the world. And now, I was alone. Truly alone.

I wobbled on my feet, my head light despite my heavy thoughts.

And that was when I got sucker-punched in the face and the lights went out for good.

* * *

I wokeup to the roar of the crowd, this time cursing and spitting at me. With my face plastered to the rough canvas, violent and intense pain radiated across my cheek and jaw.

Oh, fuck, it hurt. I hadn’t been hit like this since…I don’t know when. But I didn’t miss it.

I pushed off the cage’s floor and stood. My vision spun and I stumbled to the side. My head hurt just as much from the impact with the ground as it did from the Irishman’s fist. The Underground didn’t use the high quality mats official fighting organizations do. This shit was rock hard, cracked, and covered in stains from god-knows-what.

I rubbed the side of my face to ease the sharpness but pulled away when new pain shot through my head. My fingers came back bloody.

Great. More scars.

My body was littered with them. My arms, legs, and back didn’t bother me too much, but my face? Those were harder to hide or explain away, and I wasn’t exactly trained in the fine art of makeup application.

I blinked, trying to refocus, and found Greg, the Underground’s main bookie. He made his rounds through the stands, collecting money from some very pissed-off audience members.

“Come on, come on! Fork it over!” he called as he practically ripped a wad of money out of a man’s hand.

“She threw the match,” he barked back. “It’s rigged.”

“What kind of establishment do you think I’m fucking running here? You bet wrong. Time to pay.” But when Greg hopped down the bleachers, he caught my gaze and a sympathetic smile tugged on his lips.

Of course, he knew I didn’t throw anything. He’d seen enough of these fights to know I should’ve won.

And I should have. It was why I bet heavily on myself every match.

Now I had nothing.

I’d bet a lot on this match, too much, knowing the odds were in my favor.

In hindsight, totally stupid, but I had bills to pay.

Still woozy, I gripped the ring’s metal gate to help me stand. The coolness helped ground my spinning head. On the other side, the Irishman was celebrating by pounding his chest and shouting, like a hairless ape.Charming.

I moved toward the exit, my feet heavy as if made from lead. The flashing lights threatened to blind me, the cheers, screams and curses from the crowd thundered in my ears. My pride stung more than my face, and I just wanted to get out of here before the angry crowd followed me.

“Oi! Girlie!”

I turned to find the macho Irishman stalking over to me. Arms swinging by his side, and muscled legs moving stiffly, he looked like he couldn’t quite walk properly with all the testosterone flowing through his veins.

He was the last person I wanted to deal with right now. “Girlie? I’m twenty-five fucking years old.”

His eyes widened. Either he didn’t expect my age, or he didn’t expect my fresh mouth, but either way, surprise, shithead. I walked down the steps toward the pits to where the fighters changed and whatnot before and after matches.

“Wait!” he yelled.

I stopped again to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “You won. Can you just leave it alone?”

“Throw some ice on that pretty face and meet me at the bar in a half-hour,” he said, his smart-ass grin back in place.

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