“Do you both understand the rules?” I look up at the giant in front of me who laughs then nods, I turn to Leo nodding. “The one who doesn’t stand, is the one who loses.” The crowd around us cheers like this is a death match. It might be. “Begin.”
The floor shakes.
The world narrows.
He’s on me like an avalanche.
The first punch hits my jaw, stars flash white. I duck the second, my fist slamming into his gut. He doesn’t flinch.
Fuck.
Helikespain.
We’re trading hits. Heavy. Dirty. Raw.
He headbutts me, and I stumble, vision swimming. But I don’t go down. My legs hold, because I’ve trained in fire. I’vebled on Messina stone. Nico nearly killed me this week, and Ithankedhim for it.
The Butcher tries to grab me in a chokehold, but I twist, elbow up into his throat.
He gasps, just once. I seize the moment. Knee to his ribs. Another to his hip. One more hit, and he’s staggering.
“Your girl will scream in pain,” he snarls, stumbling.
My blood turnsblack.
I drive my fist into his face so hard it splits the skin across my knuckles. Then again and again. I don’t stop until he hits the floor, gasping blood. His eyes are rolling. Arms twitching.
I raise my fist one last time, shaking, sweat pouring down my spine. His mouth moves.
“Do it.”
“No,” I hiss, voice cracking.
I want him toknowwhat mercy tastes like. It tastes like shame.
Before I can go in with one more hit, he kicks my chest, and I fall back.
The cage hums like it’s alive.
Cillian’s already standing and waiting for me to attack again. A killer with winter in his eyes.
My heart pounds in my chest a lot harder than it needs to, and Nico’s words thrum like a heartbeat in my skull:
“Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Rage isn't fire, it's a blade. Control it, or bleed by it.”
He steps forward. Eyes dead. Voice low. “Hope you said goodbye to her.”
I don’t blink. Just shift my stance, legs light, shoulders loose.
I aim low, testing. Cillian steps back, reading me. His body is built to break bones, but mine… mine is trained to win wars.
Hook. Cross. Elbow to the side. My movements are clean, methodical. Every pivot drilled a thousand times beneath Nico’sdeadpan stare. My lungs burn but I don’t let it show. He doesn’t speak again. Not yet.
Then I catch him across the jaw, just enough to rattle. His eyes sharpen.
“Little Irish girl’s got you twisted, huh?” he says.
And there it is.
