Page 74 of Glutton for Punishment

She feels like home.

Chapter 22

Brix

Adull crack echoes along my jawline. His fist glances off bone, and I ride the impact, letting my head roll with the blow.

The bloodthirsty roar of the crowd echoes over the slight ringing in my ears from the hit. Bodies desperate for a good show packed tight around the ring of rusted metal and rope, deep underground.

I wipe away the sweat dripping into my eyes, just to leave a trail of dirt and blood stuck to my skin.

“Finish it!” someone shouts.

I take a deep breath, then step back towards him. His breathing is wrong.

Using my heightened senses, I pick it apart. It’s wet and rattled. The pumping of his heart too fast.

A slight shift in his stance draws my attention; he’s favoring his left knee. He’s done.

He swings again.

I could end this easily. Instead, I take it on the shoulder as pain flares, sharp this time, and I welcome it. Let it burn and sink deep.

For a second, I’m no longer in the ring.

My vision flicks to Arwen in the courtyard, leaning against the fountain, smiling at me. Blue eyes bright, chin tipped up as she fires a vicious comeback that makes us all laugh.

Then it shifts. Her eyes panicked. No longer bright. Wet cheeks.

She’s scared.

“Brix, please—”

I drive my fist into the guy’s ribs and he folds with a choked sound. I follow through, another hit, then another, until someone grabs my arm and yanks me back.

“Enough,” the handler snaps. The crowd boos, wanting more blood.

I shake him off, breathing hard, and look down at what I’ve done. He’s not moving much. Thankfully, his chest is rising, though.

Closing my eyes, I swallow the guilt down. He agreed to be here. It’s what the crowd wants. What they can’t find in the authorized Wrath Arenas.

The underground lets the fights go too far. Allows illegal moves.

Even death.

And these people? They crave it all.

Money exchanges hands as I step out of the ring, rolling my shoulder despite its protests. My knuckles are split open, blood drying in thin lines down my wrist. I flex my fingers once, twice. They still work.

Someone presses a wad of bills into my palm.

“Good fight tonight,” they say.

Instead of counting it as I should, I just shove it into my pocket. I’ll add it to the rest later, not that it will ever add up to enough.

Grabbing my shirt off the ground, I drag it over my head to cover the blood and sweat. I push through the crowd and up the tunnels, through the hands clapping my back and the voices calling my name.

My head’s already somewhere else.