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Vale gets a kick into my midsection. I answer with a jab that snaps his head back.

The last minute is a scrap. We trade in the middle of the cage, back and forth. In the thick of it, while my hands are busy, he sneaks a low kick in that thuds into my thigh. I ignore it and keep throwing.

By the horn, we’re both drenched in sweat and breathing hard. But his cheekbone’s swelling, there’s blood smeared under his nose, and a red mark is coming up on his stomach where my elbow landed. My lip’s fat and my right cheekbone’s sore, but I don’t care.

That round was mine.

Back on the stool, Davie’s calm. He doesn’t waste words.

“He’s talking because it worked on Cruz,” he says. “It’s no working. Keep it that way.”

I nod.

The third round starts, and I meet Vale in the middle with a stiff jab that catches him right on his swollen cheekbone. But the next time I throw it, I reach too far. He slips outside it and drives a right into my side, hard enough to make me pull my elbow in.

We’re both working hard now. Sweat runs into my eyes. My shoulders burn, and Vale’s breathing loudly through his mouth.

We trade across the cage and back. He’s slippery, and he makes plenty of my punches and kicks miss, but more of my shots are landing on him than his are on me. Each time we break apart, I take the centre again. We keep at it, neither of us getting a breather. He circles away, I cut him off, and we do it all again. My jab’s getting heavy to lift, but I’m still finding him with it.

Then he turns my own trick back on me. He shifts his weight as if the low kick is coming, and I lift my leg to check it, but the kick never comes. Before I can set my foot down, he darts in and clamps his arms round me. I plant it, but he’s already driving me back against the fence, pinning me there. His mouth at my ear again.

“That girl of yours,” he says. “Sweet little arse on her.”

I drive my shoulder into him. He hangs on.

“Briony, isn’t it?” He says her name like he’s tasting it. “She’s got a nasty little temper on her. Might have to teach her some manners.”

Something in me snaps.

I don’t decide anything. I don’t set anything up. I shove him off and swing for his head with everything I’ve got—a huge, wild right hand, all of my weight behind it. Nothing like the fight I’ve been fighting.

It misses, and I see the left hook too late. It cracks into my jaw, and the world goes white at the edges.

My legs aren’t there anymore. They’re just gone. The canvas is against the side of my face.

I can taste the gumshield. Rubber and blood.

Fifteen thousand people are roaring, but it’s muffled now. Far away. Like noise through a wall.

Get up. Get up!

But I can’t make myself move.

Then Vale’s weight comes down on me.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

BRIONY

Ryan is lying on his side on the canvas, and Vale is on top of him.

The punches come down fast and short, one after another. Ryan isn’t moving.

But then—after what feels like an age, though it can only be seconds—his arm comes up, slow and clumsy, to cover his face. Some of the punches hit his arm. Plenty don’t.

The referee is crouched right over them, and I know exactly what he’s checking. Is Ryan still defending himself? Does he even know where he is?

I’m not thinking about the belt, or who’s winning. I want it to stop. That’s all. I want that referee to step in now, before Vale can hurt him any more.