I drag her hand to my chest, pinning it over my thudding heartbeat. My mouth dips closer, my breath hot against hers. “Damn right.”
Her eyes flash, dark and hungry. Her smirk returns, sharp as glass. “Careful, Dante. You’re starting to sound like I belong to you.”
My restraint thins to a thread. I lower my mouth to her ear, lips grazing skin. “Keep pushing me, Hellcat and I’ll start proving it.”
Her breath stutters, sharp, and unguarded before she smothers it with a soft laugh. She tips her head just enough that her lips brush my jaw as she whispers, “Promises, promises.”
I don’t wait. I drag her with me, swipe the token across the plate, and the lock clicks. The seam parts, and I pull her through. The door seals shut behind us with a heavy hiss. The air warms. Smoke, heat, and the roar of a hidden crowd wafts up the stairs descending in front of us. Her hand still burns in mine. And I can’t tell which is more dangerous, Serrano… or the woman on my arm.
11
KATANA
My heel catches on the flare of fabric around my feet, nearly sending me tumbling down the stairs. I jerk forward, catching myself with a palm on the rail. Hands close around the curve of my hips, steady and firm, pulling me upright before I can fully pitch forward. Dante’s right behind me, close enough that his chest brushes my back for a second. His grip is solid, unflinching, steadying me.
“Careful, Hellcat,” he murmurs, low enough that it hums against the shell of my ear.
Heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and inconvenient. The air presses down heavy and thick. It clings to my skin, mixing with the undercurrent of Dante’s scent at my back. My body can’t tell the difference between the danger below and the desire standing too close.
I shove a breath out through my nose, force my spine straight, and shrug his hand off like I don’t need it. But the warmth where his fingers pressed lingers, and I hate that I want it back.
I tug my mask back into place before it slips fully. The lace digs into my cheekbones, itchy where it presses against sweat.
I feel like a fraud without my cut. No leather on my shoulders, no weight of it grounding me. Just silk and lace that don’t belong to me, heels that make me feel like prey instead of predator. Every click reminds me I’m not dressed for war; I’m dressed for a show and I hate being the center of attention.
A roar spikes from below, loud enough to rattle up the stairwell. The crowd’s chant rises, guttural and raw, pulling at something I’ve spent years locking down. The sound drags me with it, step by step, until my heels hit the floor at the bottom and the room spreads wide like some twisted cathedral.
The marble is gone, replaced by bare concrete, cool and damp beneath the stale heat. The air is thicker here, every breath full of smoke and sweat, bitter on my tongue. Long strips of industrial lighting hum overhead, throwing shadows across pipes and vents that look like veins feeding into the belly of the building.
The sound of the crowd, hungry and ugly, surrounds me with every step forward. The cage dominates the center. Its bars thick and black, bolted into concrete, ringed by velvet booths stacked in tiers. Masks glitter in the hazy light, faceless suits and gowns leaning forward, starved for the thrill. Their bloodthirsty cheers swell, and it cuts me to the bone because I know that sound too well.
“I’ve got money on the tall one. He’s juiced to the gills.” A voice slurs behind us.
“The little one’s already wobbling. He won’t last another two minutes.”
Laughter cuts across the room, smoke drifting thicker as men lean in close to make wagers, their voices hungry.
The smell is choking. Expensive cigars and cheap cigarettes burn thick. The sweetness of spilled champagne mixes with the bitterness of whiskey and sweat, all of it layered over the metallic tang of blood ground into the floor. It clings to the back of mythroat, and I have to swallow against the bile rising up. The roar of the crowd crashes over me.
Something clenches in my chest. The heat, the stink of sweat drags me sideways and for a heartbeat I’m back under the lights, gloves on, sweat stinging my eyes, the taste of copper in my mouth.
Suddenly it’s not Serrano’s cage I’m looking at, but the mat beneath my feet years ago. Chalk dust in my throat. My opponent’s snarl, blood pooling between her teeth, her eyes wild. My arms trembled from swinging, lungs burning, ribs screaming every time I pulled air in. Stopping wasn’t an option. Hesitation meant being carried out in a body bag.
The crowd’s roar in the here and now bleeds into that night until I can’t tell them apart.Finish it!
Break her!
Don’t stop till she’s down!
Fists slamming the mat, the chant building, pounding through my skull until all I could do was swing harder.
I remember the moment her eyes glazed over and her body slumped against the ropes, but I kept hitting. Because if I didn’t… if she twitched back up… it’d be me laid out in blood. That’s what survival looked like. Not winning. Just not dying.
The sweat, the blood, the fear of that night presses in until it’s choking me. A warm hard presses into my lower back. Dante’s hand. His thumb shifts the smallest circle, and it cuts through the haze snapping the memory apart, reminding me where I am.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low, right at my ear.
The chant fades back into scattered shouts, cheering like this is theater.
