“That’s the job,” I said.
He charged. I braced, ready, but he faked me—dove low and picked me up, hoisting my body over his shoulder like a ragdoll. The world spun. He slammed me down, and something in my shoulder ripped. I screamed, a sound that was half rage, half surrender.
He straddled me, one knee in my gut, and started pounding my face. The pain was distant, almost abstract—just the sound of meat hitting meat. I felt my cheekbone crack, and for a second everything went black. I heard Damron’s voice, loud and angry, but couldn’t make out the words.
Somewhere in the haze, I found my right hand. I wrapped it around Saint’s busted fingers and twisted, hard. He shrieked and tried to pull away, but I held on, wrenching his hand until he let go and staggered off me.
We both got to our feet, swaying, half-dead. The circle was dead silent. Not a single laugh, not a jeer—just the sound of two men breathing like dying animals.
Saint wiped his face, spitting out a tooth. “You wanna finish this?” he said.
I nodded, too tired to speak.
He went for my throat, a full-body tackle. I side-stepped and caught him with an elbow to the windpipe. He gagged, stumbled, and I followed with a series of kidney shots, every one designed to cripple. He swung blindly, caught me in the ear, and the world rang.
He grabbed my arm, twisted, and with a yank, popped my shoulder all the way out. The pain was nuclear. I almost blacked out, but adrenaline kept me standing.
I kicked his bad knee again, and this time it gave completely. He dropped, and I drove my knee into his face. He went limp, but I knew better than to trust it. I circled, breathing hard, blood pouring down my face.
Saint tried to get up, but his body was done. He reached for my leg, but I stepped back. He looked up at me, eyes wild.
“Do it,” he said, his voice a rasp.
I hesitated, just a second, then planted my boot on his throat and pressed down, just enough to make the point.
He tapped out. Three weak slaps on my boot.
I let up, stepped back, barely able to stand. The crowd went silent, then erupted.
Damron and Seneca rushed in, dragging me back to the Scythe side. I collapsed into their arms, my head swimming.
Melissa was there, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling. She kissed me, bloody and broken, and held my hand like it was the last thing in the world that mattered.
The Leatherbacks circled Saint, dragging him away. He was still breathing, but just barely.
I looked at Cutler. He nodded, respect in his eyes, and then turned and walked away, his club falling in behind him.
The trial was over.
We’d won.
I looked at Melissa, her face blurry but bright, and I knew I was alive.
Then Saint tried another charge, but his knee gave way, and he stumbled. I could have ended it there, but I waited. I needed him to come to me. It was the only way the move would work.
He managed a laugh, flecks of red spraying from his lips. “You’re a tough little bitch,” he croaked.
I bared my teeth. “You have no idea.”
He swung again, wild, telegraphed. I ducked, then let my legs give way, crumpling to one knee like I was out of gas. He took the bait, closing in with both hands ready to choke the life out of me. I waited until his shadow covered mine, until I could smell the rot of his breath, then drove my good fist straight into his throat. Every ounce of hate, fear, and hope behind it.
The cartilage gave with a crunch like stepping on a lightbulb. Saint’s eyes went wide, his hands flying to his neck. He stumbled back, gasping, but nothing came in, nothing came out. He tried to say something, but all that came was a high, wet squeal.
He staggered, one step, two, then dropped to his knees. The king laid low. He looked up at me, pleading, but I just watched. The rules were the rules.
He fell, face-first, arms splayed. His body twitched, then went still.
The silence was surgical. The only sound was the wind, the hiss of my own breathing, and the slow drip of blood from my face onto the dirt.
