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Rhea screams again, higher this time, hands flying to the mangled side of her head. Blood runs between her fingers and down her neck in quick red streams.

She stares at me, stunned.

I spit the piece of her ear into her face. It sticks to her cheek for one horrible second before sliding down through her blood.

I smile sweetly. “Oops.”

Rhea shrieks and punches me in the mouth.

My lip splits, and I taste more blood.

She rolls, trying to get away, one hand clamped to the side of her head. I search the floor for anything. A shard of glass. A pipe. A loose piece of railing. A broken tile sharp enough to cut.

Nothing.

Come on, Clair. Think, damn it.

I yank off my sweater. The air hits my bare arms, cold and sticky. My white tank top is splattered with blood, clinging to my ribs. Rhea pushes onto her knees, dazed and bleeding, still trying to stand.

I get behind her.

She realizes too late.

I loop the sweater around her throat, cross the sleeves, and pull.

Rhea’s hands fly to the fabric. Her nails scrape over my knuckles, tearing skin open. She bucks backward, slamming into me, but I plant my knees wide and hold on. Pain screams through my leg. My arms shake. My head pounds. Her blood runs over my wrists, slicking the fabric, making it harder to keep my grip.

The crowd starts chanting.

I don’t know what they’re saying.

I don’t care.

Rhea thrashes, heels scraping tile, blood from her torn ear dripping down her neck and soaking the collar of her shirt. She reaches back, clawing for my face, my hair, anything. Her fingers catch my cheek and tear skin open. One of her elbows slams into my ribs.

Something pops.

I pull harder.

Leon taught me holds. Leverage. How to use what I have when strength isn’t enough.

Rhea’s movements get jerky. Her heels kick against the tile, smearing arcs through the blood beneath us. Her fingers weaken on the sweater. Her mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out except a thin, wet rasp. Spit bubbles on her lips. Her eyes bulge, bloodshot and furious, then unfocused.

I look up.

Russ is still beside Bryant.

Watching.

So I make him watch me win.

I pull until my shoulders burn, until black dots swim at the edges of my vision, until Poppy’s crying cuts through the crowd, until Rhea’s heels kick once, twice, then stop.

I keep pulling.

I do not let go until her body goes heavy and slack between my legs.

Silence drops for one impossible second.