Page 75 of Pistols & Peonies

My heart hammers harder against my ribs, palms slick with sweat.

He shuffles the deck with exaggerated flair, milking the moment, then draws the first card and lifts it high.

“The Slay!”

The crowd erupts, and my stomach drops straight through the floor.

First fight.

First fucking fight.

Char screams and grabs my arm, shaking me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “First draw!”

Why she’s so damn thrilled about this is beyond me. We don’t even know who my opponent is yet.

The announcer reaches back into the deck and pulls the second card. “Versus… Reaper!”

Shit.

If the crowd wasn’t already losing their damn minds, they are now. Everybody knows Reaper. He’s vicious– all raw power and zero mercy. He’s got at least eighty pounds on me, most of it muscle, and a reputation for breaking bones just for the fun of it.

But I didn’t come here to back down.

“Better get changed,” I tell Char, clapping a hand down on her shoulder. “Bet big on me, yeah?”

“Always do,” she sing-songs.

I slip my roll of cash out of my bra and slyly pass it to her before peeling away and threading my way through the crowd. It’s most of what I have left, but I’m confident I’ll be going home with a hell of a lot more after I win the Gauntlet. Betting on myself is a sure thing.

The announcer keeps pulling cards for the other first-round matchups, the noise fading behind me as I head for the locker rooms at the back– though calling them locker rooms is generous. There’s one for guys, one for girls, and no actual lockers or showers. Each is just a narrow, damp room with a long bench for fighters to dump their bags and a lone toilet at the far end.

The women’s room is empty when I step inside, though a couple of bags are already scattered along the bench. I claim an open spot and toss mine down, peeling off my leather pants.

Cute for watching a fight, not for participating in one.

I swap them for a pair of black spandex booty shorts and a black sports bra with SLAY emblazoned across my tits in silver glitter. The sparkle was Char’s idea, obviously, but I can’t deny how good it looks under the fluorescents.

I barely finish stuffing my clothes back into my bag when the door swings open and one of the tournament ring girls pokes her head inside.

“Ready?” she asks.

I nod, reaching up to twist my ponytail into a tight bun and securing it with another hair tie. Don’t wanna give my opponent a rope to grab onto. Then I straighten, rolling my shoulders as I feel that familiar pre-fight calm settle over me like armor.

The girl nods and ducks out, and I wait.

The opening of Nightmare by Halsey slams through the speakers, and I push out the door and into a wall of sound. The crowd is screaming, but I keep my head high and my eyes forward as I strut to the ring. I don’t scan the audience. Don’t look for faces. My focus stays locked on the ring ahead of me as I climb up and step inside.

By the time my feet hit the mat, the noise has dulled to a distant roar. Everything sharpens, narrowing to a single point.

Me.

This ring.

What comes next.

The song cuts, replaced by another surge of bass as Reaper makes his entrance. The crowd’s attention shifts, the energy twisting, but I don’t watch his advance. Not until he climbs into the ring across from me.

He’s exactly as intimidating as I remember– tall and broad-shouldered, his shaved head gleaming under the lights and a scythe tattoo blazing up his neck like a warning. He cracks his knuckles and grins at me, all teeth and bad intentions.