“Stay light,” Thaigo’s voice cuts through the noise.
Miguel moves. I pivot and block before I jab. My rhythm comes back like a core memory etched in muscle. Pivot. Block. Jab. Each landing with a punishing blow. Miguel laughs, wiping blood from his lips using the back of his glove.
“That’s all you got, bitch boy?” He sneers, before he swings, it’s lazy and uncoordinated, missing me entirely. Using his own opening, I shoot my fist upwards, slamming into his chin. He staggers back, shaking off the hit before he swings again, stupid and reckless.
I catch him with a right hook this time, and he stumbles, and I don’t stop. I’m on him, years of rage bleeding with each hit—it steadies me, the violence is my preferred language. The only thing I understand, I’m no longer in the ring—I’m in my head. The noise fades, and I can see Thiago’s mouth move in the crowd. It’s all moving in slow motion, but the way his eyes find mine even through the chaos.
And I hate it, how he pulls me right off the ledge.
I land one more hit before Miguel goes down hard, his head bouncing off the mat. The crowd loses its mind, and the bells ring, signaling the fight is over. The referee saunters over, his arms crossing, making an X in the air. I’m shaking from the adrenaline when he walks over to me and places my arm above my head, showcasing my victory. My knuckles sting, and my breath comes in a ragged burst.
And when I look up, Thiago is already walking into the cage, grabbing my chin, and he turns my face towards him to check the damage, which I’m sure is plenty. My left eye throbs from the pain, and my lip is busted. The look on his face tells me it’s bad even though I don’t feel it.
“Didn’t I tell you not to hold back?” he snaps, his voice low and rough.
I want to tell him to fuck off, but my throat is too dry, and honestly, I simply don’t care. Then his thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, smearing blood I didn’t know was there. I bite down on my piercing, using my tongue to play with it.
Thiago gives me a crooked grin as he praises me. “You did well, Ruas.”
Something in me snaps.
Maybe it’s the praise, maybe it’s him. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. All I know is that I stopped trusting myself the moment I fucked my hand to the memory of his kiss. For a second, I forget where we are. I grab his wrist, pull him closer until our faces are inches apart. His breath ghosts my skin, warm and familiar.
“Stop calling me that,” I whisper. “Stop acting like you give a shit.”
“Why?” His lips twitch, a half smile. “Because you like it? Or is it because you hate that I care?”
“Because it makes me want to hit you.”
“Then hit me,” he murmurs, his eyes going wide, not with fear but with menace. “Or kiss me. Either way, pick your poison; we have an audience.”
The noise around us fades, the crowd dissolving into a blur. For a split second, I consider doing both, giving in and letting him continue to ruin me all over again. But I don’t. I shove him back, hard enough to make him stumble into the rails. “We’re done here.”
I step out of the ring, feeling the eyes of everyone on me, the sound of the crowd swallowing me whole. Behind me, I hear the Costa Mar boys say something to Thiago, and my eyes find the perfect person to take my anger out on.Greyson.
Perfect.
After all, I’m here for Velarium. Might as well find some enjoyment while I continue to bleed. This is my job tonight after all.
1. my prince
Chapter Seven
Thiago
“Allowing the help to talk to you like a bitch, Safra?” Christopher Loni’s voice cuts through the noise around me. My shoulders tense—not because I’m bothered by him, but because I simply dislike the guy. There’s rich assholes… and then there’s Christopher. Too much money, too much time, and not a shred of fucking purpose. He would have fit in perfectly with Velarium, too bad his father aligned with Costa Mar, another septic dressed in gold, with the same sickness that bubbles out of Villalargos.
I glance over my shoulder, watching the smirk on his face deepen and expose the diamond grill that rests over his perfectly aligned pearly whites. The devil himself, dressed like a pimp in a white fur coat that sweeps the mat, his all-black outfit screaming self- importance. Honey-brown hair combed to perfection, and Versace frames perched high on his crooked nose, all designer ego and six feet of Italian arrogance.
As always, he’s with dumb and dumber.
The two redheaded twins that cling to each side, both matching in cheetah print tube dresses, making them look cheap and desperate. The irony of sharing the same DNA and the same dick. Both were chained, tethered to the belt loops of his pants.Pathetic.
“Run me my money instead of those dick-sucking lips of yours,” I retort, using my fingers to brush my waves from my face. Christopher laughs, his hand flying to his stomach, before abruptly stopping and tilting his head to the side.
“The only dick sucker…” He points towards Zayden, who’s disappearing amongst the crowd. “Isyourdog that’s barking up another tree?“ Christopher clicks his tongue. “Why don’t you be a good boy? Tell us who killed Asher.”
“Who gives a fuck about another rich brat?” I ask with a shrug, my hands fisting inside the confines of my pockets. He steps forward, the silver chains clinking and clacking with each move.
