Tonight, I’m going to show them all. If Dredyn Steele wants something, he takes it. And I want her. Want her fucking ruined. I want her haunted by the sound of my name when she tries to sleep.
“Yo, D!” Beck claps me on the back. “You ready to do this, brother?”
I tear my eyes from Mara at last, turning to him. “I’m ready,” I say, and he nods, giving me a weird look—half concerned, half pumped up—then heads off to either place bets or corral our supporters near the ring.
I roll my shoulders and hop up onto the edge of the ring, swinging through the ropes. The current match just ended. One guy is knocked out cold on the mat, the victor shouting triumphantly as a ref holds up his hand. Med students drag the DSN loser off to the side.
I stride to my corner where Rook is waiting with my mouthguard and the wraps for my hands. He offers to tape me up, but I wave him off. “Don’t bother,” I mutter. My knuckles are already a mess, and I don’t plan on this fight lasting long enough for it to matter.
Rook shrugs, but before he can say more, the announcer steps into the ring and calls out: “Next up, Dredyn Steele of Omega Chi Kappa!” A surge of whoops greets my name. “Facing off against Bryce Mathers, from Delta Sigma Nu!” He has plenty ofhis brothers yelling, and I see Silas Morgan and Kai Reynolds holler from his corner.
I look across the ring as Bryce climbs in. He’s big—an inch taller than me and built like a damn truck. His nose looks like it’s been broken a few times (likely has—he plays rugby, if I recall). He rolls his thick neck and pounds his taped fists together, flashing me a grin full of confidence.
None of it matters, though. Not his size, not his experience. He’s already lost, and he doesn’t even know it. Because I’m not fighting for a title or money tonight. I’m fighting for Mara.
The referee motions us to the center to go over the rules—standard underground bout, basically none. First man down or yielding ends it. I barely listen, eyes sliding to the side, seeking that spot in the bleachers again. I find Mara instantly. She’s perched on the edge of her seat, fingers clutched together in her lap. Milo leans in to say something to her, but she doesn’t seem to hear him.
The ref drones on. “… clean fight… touch gloves if you want.” Bryce and I briefly tap fists. He’s saying something, trying to psych me out maybe, but his words wash right over me. The lights overhead glare down, heat already prickling on my skin. I drop into my fighting stance, muscles humming with tension. Bryce bounces on his toes in front of me, smirking.
Somewhere in the crowd a bell clangs to signal the start. The noise around us surges. People are chanting already—some my name, some his. It’s all a blur. My vision tunnels in on the man in front of me.Let her see, a voice in my head growls.Show her what you’ll do for her.
Bryce lunges first, a quick jab toward my face, testing. I don’t even blink. His fist bounces off my cheek. He’s fast, I’ll give him that. Pain flowers where he struck, but it’s distant. I barely feel the punch at all.
The crowd roars at the first hit. Bryce’s grin widens. He thinks he’s scored an early point, but he has no idea I let him have that one for free. While he’s busy grinning, I move.
I explode forward, dodging his next swing with ease. My rightfist drives into his side with a thunderous crack—his ribs, maybe a kidney shot. Bryce lets out a bark of pain, stumbling. I’m already following up, left fist connecting with his jaw in an uppercut. I feel the crunch of impact reverberate up my arm. Bryce’s head snaps back.
A red haze creeps over my vision as I unleash on him.
A cross to his nose. Cartilage gives way with a satisfying crunch and blood spurts warm across my knuckles.
A hook to the gut. He doubles over, retching.
An elbow across his cheek. His skin splits under the strike, blood smearing.
A knee to his sternum. He chokes on a gasp, crumpling to one knee.
Somewhere in the flurry of blows, Bryce swings wildly and clips my brow.
Warm liquid trickles down my temple—blood from a cut, blurring my vision on one side. It only fuels me further.
The crowd noise is a frenzy. Some chanting my name, some screaming for me to finish it, others yelling that it’s over. A primal roar tears from my throat as I grab Bryce by the front of his shirt with my left hand, holding him up. My right fist draws back and slams into his face, once, twice.
His blood splatters hot across my forearm, my chest. His head lolls, body going limp, but I don’t let him collapse. I haul him upright and drive my fist into him again.
Through the haze, I hear the ref shouting, and suddenly arms are pulling at me, trying to stop me. I shrug them off and snarl, ready to swing at anyone who interferes. But a wailing bell rings repeatedly and the announcer booms, “Winner by knockout—DREDYN!”
The fight’s been called; Bryce is out cold, eyes rolled back. I let go of his shirt and his body drops to the mat with a thud.
My chest heaves as I stand over him, fists still clenched and dripping red. The floodlights above feel searing hot now.
I whip my head up, scanning the bleachers until I find Mara’sface. She’s standing now, one hand covering her mouth in horror. Her eyes are huge, fixed on me in disbelief at the spectacle of inhumanity I just displayed.
Are you watching, Hellcat? This is all for you.
I raise my bloodied hand and point directly at Mara. Milo notices, his face goes red, and he starts shoving his way out of their row, presumably to come confront me. But I’m already moving toward him.
I barely hear the ref trying to raise my hand in victory, or Beck hollering in triumph from ringside. My vision is tunneled and my intent single-minded. I hop out of the ring without using the steps—a swift vault over the ropes.
