Page 76 of Pistols & Peonies

“You sure you wanna do this, little girl?” he taunts.

I don’t bother responding. Words are wasted energy.

The ref steps between us, running through the rules. No biting. No eye-gouging. Tap out or pass out. Standard stuff that indicates he’s there to stop deaths, not prevent damage.

Once we confirm we’re ready, he steps back and raises his hand.

“Fight!”

Reaper comes at me fast, closing the distance with a few long strides and throwing a heavy right hook aimed at my jaw. I slip it, ducking under his arm and pivoting cleanly out of range. He’s strong, but he’s also predictable. I’ve watched him fight before. He likes to brawl, to overpower his opponents with brute force.

I’m not going to let him.

He resets, circling, and I mirror him, staying light on my feet. He fakes left, then lunges with a kick aimed at my ribs. I catch it on my forearm, the impact jarring but manageable, and counter with a quick jab to his face that snaps his head back.

His lip splits, red blooming against his skin and coating his teeth as his grin turns feral.

First blood.

“There we go,” he growls, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. “She likes it rough.”

Fucking ew.

He rushes me again, this time shooting for a takedown. I sprawl hard, throwing my hips back and driving my weight down onto his shoulders. He’s strong, but I’m fast. I break free, reset, and land a hard kick to his thigh that makes him stumble.

The crowd is screaming, the noise deafening, but I barely hear it.

I’m already three moves ahead.

We exchange strikes– his hooks wild and heavy, mine precise and targeted. I’m landing more hits, but he only needs one good shot to end this. I feel the difference in our power every time he connects, his fists like hammers crashing into bone.

One slips through.

An uppercut snaps my head back, rattling my teeth, and I taste copper.

Focus.

I shake it off and circle out, forcing my feet to keep moving while my vision clears. I focus on my breathing, waiting for my opening.

He comes in again, overcommitting to a haymaker, and I see it– the gap in his defense, his ribs exposed for a split second. I step in and drive my knee into his side, hard and fast. He grunts, folding just enough for me to follow up with an elbow to the side of his head.

Reaper drops.

Not out, but down on one knee, breathing hard. I back off, chest heaving, hands loose but ready as he drags himself upright.

My arms are shaking now, adrenaline crashing through me in waves. The hit slowed him down, but he’s not finished. Neither am I.

We collide again, trading blows with everything we’ve got left. My muscles burn, my lungs scream, but I can see in his eyes that he’s fading. Shit, I might actually take this.

We break apart, circling, both of us buying a heartbeat to catch our breath.

And then something pulls my focus.

My inner wolf surges, sharp and sudden, a familiar flare igniting in my chest. I glance out over the crowd without meaning to, and that’s when I see him.

Kane.

He’s standing near the back, arms crossed over his chest, expression carved from stone beneath the brim of a dark baseball cap. Those intense eyes are locked on me, dark and burning, and for half a second, the entire world tilts.