Page 2 of Cruel Abandon (Fallen Royals 5)

Baker is coming for me, about to drop on top of me the same way I was just on him. I roll, and his knees smack the concrete.

Up, body. I climb up, sucking in a deep breath. This fight needs to be over.

I scan the crowd once, but Baker needs my full attention.

He staggers to his feet. I must’ve clipped him in the eyebrow or forehead at one point, because one of his eyes is filled with blood.

Before he can regain his balance, I kick out. My heel catches him in the center of his chest, and his eyes pop open. His lips part, too. In slow motion, he stumbles backward.

Out of the circle.

The people hastily part for him—no one touches the fighters—and watch him fall.

Silence.

Then… cheering.

I blink, rubbing at my face. It’s tender, scraped and bruised to hell. My eye will be swollen by the end of the night. The skin around it is tight, and my vision is a bit blurry on that side.

Colt slaps my shoulder, grinning in my face. We’ve been friends for a year—about how long I’ve been fighting at Howl—and I flashback to the first time I won a fight. He had slapped a wad of cash into my palm and thanked me for playing.

The money was a godsend.

I didn’t know how I was going to keep affording school otherwise. I had a loan for the first semester and a scholarship for housing. My family had nothing extra for books or food, but I convinced them that I would be okay. I snuck into the dining hall sometimes, stockpiled when I could, or Theo helped me out.

I hated his handouts.

Still do.

And then Theo got me into Howl, I won, and suddenly I had more than a grand in cash to my name.

Colt lifts my arm above my hand, and the crowd screams louder. We rotate in a circle.

I grimace and pull my arm away as soon as his grip loosens. I don’t like crowds. I like the anticipation of pain and adrenaline, and I like the cash. Not the people who get off on watching us.

I go over and extend my hand to Baker, who takes it with a small smile.

We’re friends outside Howl. Maybe not the best of friends, but decent enough. Not enemies, anyway. I haul him up. It’s a good day when one of us isn’t dragged out between RJ and Colt half-unconscious.

A few people come over and congratulate me. For a second, I get the impression that I’m no better than a lucky statue everyone wants to rub. Their hands touch my shoulders, my back, my arms.

I shudder.

Baker loops his arm over my shoulders and steers me toward the exit.

RJ is waiting for us, a big grin on his face. “What a cute couple,” he says. “You fight and make up so quickly.”

“You wish you could touch this,” Baker says, releasing me and smacking his own ass. “Ain’t that right, Morrison?”

I roll my eyes. RJ hands me an envelope, and as I slide it into my pocket, I scan the rest of the room. I’m still searching for the familiar face in the crowd, but all that remains are the dregs of the crowd. Those desperate to win Colt’s good graces and get invited back.

“You good?” RJ asks me. “We were gonna hit up Tristan’s place.”

“I’m going home and passing out. Baker’s got a mean punch.”

Baker snorts. “Only when something distracts you.”

I don’t answer. Something’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it.

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