“I already did,” I mumble.
“Then make it two.” She nudges me toward him.
When I reach Carter, he’s already holding a second bottle. “Peace offering,” he says.
“Truce until the next bullet,” I reply, taking it.
He grins. “Optimistic.”
“Or desperate.”
“Desperate suits you.” He laughs, the sound grounding me in a way gunfire never could.
The first bell rings. Fists fly. The air turns electric.
Sloane drops her opponent in two rounds. French taunts the loser while the Bastards cheer like it’s championship night. Daisy yells encouragement to the ladies while Torch pretends to be offended. Laughter and sweat spill everywhere.
Raven cheers until her throat goes raw. Calypso sits ringside with Annabelle in her lap, Farris’ arm around her shoulders. She looks pale, sweat beading her temple, but she still claps, whispering something to her daughter that makes the little girl giggle.
I kneel beside them between bouts. “You doing okay?”
“Hurts like hell,” Calypso admits, “but worth every second. Farris keeps me grounded.” He squeezes her hand, murmuring something soft enough that only she hears.
“Annabelle thinks French is Wonder Woman.”
“She’s close,” I say, brushing a hand over Annabelle’s curls.
When French lands the knockout, Annabelle squeals, “Aunt French hit the bad man!”
Calypso laughs softly, wincing. “Out of the mouths of babes.”
“I’ll get you some water,” I offer, squeezing her hand.
“Don’t fuss, sugar. Go enjoy your night. You’ve earned one.”
I don’t believe her, but I nod anyway and stand, eyesalready finding Carter again. He’s at the far end of the ring now, talking to Allura, both of them scanning the crowd. Allura’s expression softens when she spots me, then tilts her head. Permission to breathe.
Across the ring, Torch leans on the ropes, yelling, “Next round’s mine!”
Daisy rolls her eyes and calls, “You lasted thirty seconds last time, babe, pace yourself!” Laughter ripples through the crowd.
The night spins golden and reckless. Between bouts, Carter drifts closer, the crowd thinning around us. Capone’s men patrol steadily. The Harlots run bets, the kids from the shelter hand out flyers. For once, the world feels almost safe.
By midnight, the last fight’s done, the money’s counted, and Divine’s tally hits the target we needed for the shelter. The air vibrates with pride and exhaustion.
Capone takes the mic. “On behalf of the Royal Bastards and the Royal Harlots, we raised enough tonight to keep the shelters running for the year. Ride proud, ride free, and take care of your damn people!”
The cheer that follows could crack concrete.
Later, when the crowd thins, someone starts a slow song on the speakers, bluesy and raw, the kind of music that reminds you you’re still alive.
Carter finds me again. Couples dance on oil-stained concrete. Carter steps up behind me, voice low near my ear. “Dance with me.”
“Not a dance floor.”
He smiles, pulling me closer. “Doesn’t have to be.”
I let himpull me in. His hand finds my waist, my palm settles against his chest, just above the scar. We move slowly, lazy sways under flickering lights. For a few breaths, the world goes still. The smell of smoke and sweat becomes perfume, the hum of engines a lullaby.
