CHAPTER ONE
Blood drips into my right eye. Once. Twice. It’s blinding and searing at the same time.
I wince, letting out a pained whimper. It fucking burns, blood in the eye.
The pain is real.
The whimper is not.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my twenty-three years alive, it’s this: women in pain give men confidence. It stirs up something instinctive, deep inside of them, that makes them believe they have the upper hand, even if every logical piece of evidence screams at them they do not.
Confidence makes men sloppy.
And sloppy men are easy targets.
We’re in some old emberwine warehouse in the Southern Quarter tonight, the air reeking of rotting fruit. Torches burn around the edges of the ring, illuminating our fight and casting everything else in twisting, dancing shadows. The crowd is hushed in anticipation, but even so, the room seems full.
Good. A bigger crowd means a bigger pot of winnings.
There’s a loudthump, thump, thumpas my opponent slowly approaches me, his steps heavy. He’s a big, meaty man with agood six inches on me, which he undoubtedly thinks makes him powerful. He’s not the kind of person who understands how lethal grace can be.
“I’ll make you regret ever being born, little girl. You’ll need a closed casket.”
Goddess, this guy is a bore. But our audience is eating it up, if the frenzied roar is any indication.
More blood drips into my eye. He got me good with a right hook to the forehead, I’ll give him that.
I turn my head to the side, feigning weakness, my cheek pressed into the packed dirt floor of the fighting ring. There’s a flash of movement in the leering crowd as someone pushes their way toward the edge of the ring.
Lee. He must’ve just gotten off work.
He folds his muscular arms against his broad chest, his spotless messenger’s tunic making him stick out in this seedy place. Then he raises an eyebrow at me in amusement.
I can almost hear his deep voice saying:Stop toying with him, Meryn, and just end this so we can get on with our night.
He’s right, of course. I’d much rather be in his lap right now than face-down in this stinking pit.
Right, then. Time to finish the show.
My opponent grows closer and I moan again, waiting for him to reach the exact right spot. He doesn’t even see the trap I’ve set for him, even though it’s so obvious. Even though I play this move almost every fight.
He doesn’twantto see it, because I’ve made him confident. Certain that he will be the man to bring down Meryn Cooper, the infamous Alleycat of the Eastern Quarter.
Idiot.
Finally, he reaches my side, preparing to grab me, or sit on me, or choke me out—something predictable. Another roar kicks up in the crowd, the room full of frothing, drunken gamblers allpraying that he’ll get me good, that their bet against the woman will pay off.
He leans down toward me, his foul breath hitting my face, and that’s when I do it.
I loop my leg around his and drive my heel into the fleshy back of his knee with all the force I can muster. Then I roll to the side, out of his way, and spring up onto my feet.
“Fuck!” He crashes to the ground, hitting it hard, making it shudder beneath me. The air rushes from his lungs in an audible whoosh.
The man pushes up onto his palms, but before he can get any farther, I strike. I kick him in the nose, relishing the sweet crack it makes as it breaks. Ruby red blood gushes down his face, dripping onto the floor. It knocks him backwards onto his ass.
Before he can try to recover again, I jump on him, kneeing him in the groin to keep him down. Then I pin him, peppering his face with more strikes. I’m not going for a kill; I fight dirty, but not like that. But I’ll be sure he stays down.
My knuckles burst open under their scars and calluses and blood drips between my curled fingers. For a moment, I let myself relish the adrenaline rush of the pain and the clear-headed focus it gives me.
