Page 78 of Pistols & Peonies

A low, violent instinct rises in me before I can contain it.

The idea of her being struck, of men watching her half-naked body move under these lights, of strangers chanting her name like they have any claim to it… it all crawls beneath my skin, simmering into a quiet rage. My wolf surges, possessive and pissed the fuck off, but I force him back. Force myself to remain still.

If I move now, I blow my cover. And more than that, I lose the chance to see who Violet really is when she doesn’t know I’m looking. I need to understand this version of her; the woman who willingly steps into a ring with a man twice her size and doesn’t flinch.

Reaper climbs through the ropes to take his corner opposite her, and Violet doesn’t spare him so much as a glance at first. She’s already centered, shoulders loose, eyes sharp as the ref calls them in. They exchange a few quiet words I can’t hear over the crowd before separating again.

“Fight!” the ref calls.

Reaper comes out exactly as expected– all brute force and ego, swinging hard like he intends to end it in the first exchange. Violet slips him easily, pivoting out of range and answering with the kind of precision that tells me this isn’t her first competitive fight. That’s when it hits me: this is how she got beat up that night she came home at two in the morning, this is the ‘club’ she works at. After sparring with her at the TTC, I should’ve put it together sooner.

Reaper throws a kick, and Violet beats him to the strike, her fist snapping into his mouth hard enough to draw blood. The crowd answers with a roar, the energy ramping up.

They circle, clash, break, then circle again. It doesn’t take long for me to see the pattern. She’s letting him burn through his strength, letting frustration cloud his judgment. Every step backward is intentional. Every counter lands exactly where it needs to.

I’m… entranced.

She’s brilliant and beautiful, moving with such grace and fluidity that it’s almost like watching a dance.

His fist clips her jaw, snapping her head to the side, and my whole body goes rigid. My hands curl into fists at my sides, jaw locking so tight it aches. My wolf surges forward violently, demanding I end this before he gets another clean hit.

Violet barely even reacts. She spits blood onto the mat, rolls her shoulders once, and smiles at him, sharp and predatory. Heat coils low in my abdomen at the sight of it, something primal stirring in my chest.

Reaper charges again, and this time she steps into him instead of away. I don’t even catch the exact mechanics of what she does, only the result. His breath leaves him in a strangled grunt, his balance falters, and he drops to one knee while the crowd collectively loses their minds.

They clash again after he regains his footing, but the outcome is already obvious. He’s tiring, she isn’t. She’s landing cleaner hits, moving lighter on her feet, conserving energy while he bleeds his out onto the mat.

Shit, she’s about to finish this.

And then, in the middle of the noise and sweat and chaos, she lifts her head.

Her gaze cuts through the crowd, those piercing blue eyes finding me instantly. Recognition flickers across her face and her focus shifts.

It’s only for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. Reaper’s fist slams into the side of her head, catching her blind and sending her to the mat. She lands hard on her hands and knees, dazed. He’s on her before she can fully recover, dragging her down and wrapping a thick forearm around her throat.

I’m already moving. My wolf claws at my insides, feet carrying me forward with the singular objective to get to her. The crowd roars as I force my way through the thick crush of bodies, shoving shoulders aside, baring teeth at anyone too slow to clear my path. A few stumble back in recognition, but I don’t give a shit about blowing my cover at this point. I just need them to get the fuck out of my way, and getting to the ring feels impossible with how long it’s taking to push through the mass of spectators.

On the mat, Violet fights. She twists beneath Reaper, hips bucking, trying to create space. He’s heavier, though, and he has the leverage. His arm tightens around her throat, cutting off her air supply. Her face flushes red, and for a second, I think she’s going to lose consciousness before she yields.

Then her palm hits the mat. Once. Twice.

The ref intervenes immediately, dragging Reaper off her as the MC shouts that he’s taken the round. I barely register the words over the blood pounding in my ears. Reaper raises his arms in celebration, and for one dark, reckless moment, I consider stepping into that ring and ending him where he stands.

But Violet is already pushing herself upright, and my focus snaps back to her reflexively.

She shakes his hand, then slips through the ropes and makes a beeline for the back of the room. I cut through the crowd, following the path she carved and reaching the door at the rear just after she barrels through it, catching it before it closes and stepping inside behind her.

The space beyond is a locker room– or at least what passes for one in a shithole like this. Harsh fluorescent lights flicker over a single wooden bench, the air tinged with the metallic tang of blood sweat. Violet’s already tearing at the tape around her hands, ripping it free with jerky movements that betray the adrenaline still flooding her system. Blood smears across her knuckles as it comes loose, her chest heaving with every labored breath.

I close the door behind me and flip the lock. Violet whirls to face me, blue eyes blazing.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she demands, voice still rough from being half-choked minutes ago.

“I could ask you the same,” I snap, taking a step toward her.

She hurls the bloody tape at my chest. “You distracted me,” she spits. “I had him, and you just cost me ten grand!”

“You shouldn’t have been in that fucking ring in the first place,” I growl, closing the remaining distance between us in a single stride. “What the hell were you thinking?”