by Soto, S. M.
I drive my fist into his side as he’s righting himself and use the momentum to land another hit directly to his chest, driving the air straight out of his lungs. The blow causes him to stumble back. I can see on his face just how winded he is. As much as I’d like to charge him and finish this, I can’t risk it. I still have more fights to go after this; if I wear myself out, I’ll be done and leaving the Bowels in a fucking body bag. Instead, I let the asshole prowl around me. He must lose patience, waiting around for me to attack, because suddenly he leaps, his fist flying in the air, sailing toward my face. I jerk away, the blow chipping my jaw only slightly. Shaking it off, I raise my arms just in time to block his next blow and use his outstretched arms as the opening I need. I make a clean jab in the center of his face that knocks his head back. Flinging out my arm, I wrap a hand around the base of his neck, and then I raise my knee at the same time I yank down.
My opponent’s face connects with my knee in a spray of red. Blood gushes from his mangled nose, leaking onto the floor at our feet. I don’t waste any time ending him. It’s a cheap shot, one I wouldn’t normally go for, but fuck it. I smash my booted foot in his face, dazing him enough to give me time to drop to the floor and wrap my legs around his rib cage and squeeze. The tighter I clench my muscles, the more I feel his ribs crack and hear the sound of his agonized shouts. When my muscles start to burn, I go for his neck, winding my arms around till the crook of my elbow is right up underneath his jaw. Pressing down with all my strength, I twist and all the fight dissipates from his body. His heavy, bloodied form slackens in my arms, and I feel the weight of another life blackening my soul.
No time is wasted removing his body from the ring, and before I can even catch my breath, my next opponent is stepping through, a gleam in his eyes. He wants me dead. It’s written in the bloodlust in his eyes and in his bloodthirsty smile.
The pop is signaled, and it starts all over again. Except this fight is different—I feel it when my opponent digs in his back pocket and pulls out a hunting knife. My lips thin.
Fucking bastard.
I make the mistake of glancing up toward Arthur’s shadowed throne. By the time I look back at my opponent, he’s charging, knife raised and all. His fist that’s holding the weapon sails down near my face and I dodge, but not nearly enough. The jagged edges of the weapon rip into the skin of my shoulder as I jerk to the side. Blood trickles from the wound almost immediately. The warm, sticky smell of copper coats my clothes.
Crazy Eyes slashes the knife wildly in the air, jabbing here and there, forcing me to duck and dodge until I’m heaving for breath. I barely escape another one of his slashes when I knock my fist into the side of his head, jarring him. I know what a hit like this does to your senses. It makes your fucking ears ring, and your vision momentarily goes dark while you stagger, trying to right yourself. I use this opportunity and land a solid blow in his face, another in his chest, and another that clips his jaw.
He seems to find his balance again because he swings the knife down, slicing the skin of my forearm. I jab again, but this time, he’s expecting it, using his knife to slice the skin of my hand. Each slash from his knife is like fire branding into my skin. Blood is dripping down my arm now in a steady stream.
Images of Blossom flash before my eyes, and a growl rips from my chest just as his knife is sailing toward me again. This time it’s coming at my face, fast, but it all happens in slow motion. Those last seconds where I manage to grip onto his hand that’s wrapped around the handle and fight against his momentum. Using his strength against him, I twist his arm and with my hands wrapped around his on the knife, I jam the blade into his face. Surprise flickers just before the hunting knife embeds itself into his skull.
The Bowels of Hell
Percivale
I step back, my chest heaving as his body drops to the floor and the crowd roars. Because this…this is the show they wanted tonight. I step over the now-dead man’s body, grip the knife handle, and yank it out of his skull. Pocketing the weapon for later, just in case there are any more surprises, I watch as the next fighter struts in and a hush falls over the crowd.
“Here he is, our prized possession, our undefeated…Reaper.”
The roars shake the foundation of the building as they shout and cheer for the Reaper. It seems my next opponent has a name and a title to live up to. A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips, and I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, no doubt smearing the blood.
Unlike the rest of my opponents, Reaper doesn’t waste any time. He goes straight in for the kill, charging me at full speed. His head rams straight into my chest, knocking me off my feet and straight onto my back. All the air is knocked out of me once I make contact with the floor, and by the time I suck in a breath, his fist is sailing down toward my face. I don’t have time to stop it. Or the next, or even the next. The crowd is going wild again; their chanting of the “Reaper” is fucking deafening.
I manage to jab him in his ugly mug and jam my elbow into his face, but it doesn’t stun him long enough. He swings again and this time, his fist makes contact with my nose and I hear the crack. Pain so mind-boggling and numbing has me reacting slower than I should. I swing once, twice, and he blocks each one. Reaper tries to get his hands around my throat, and like a switch finally going off, I jerk and a roar rips from my chest and I raise up and smash my head against his with a headbutt, dazing us both. The move stuns him long enough that I’m able to roll onto my side and climb to my feet.
Reaper mirrors my movements. Blood drips from both of our faces and we raise our arms, watching each other closely. We circle each other, and when he drops one of his arms to dig into his pocket, my eyes narrow. He smiles, blood coating his teeth as he slides on a pair of brass knuckles.
“C’mon, pussy,” he taunts.
Fucking bastard.
“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” he chuckles as he hops toward me, throwing a right hook with his brass knuckles that I manage to dodge. I jab him in the face with my left and swing out with my right, landing a solid blow to his cheek. He throws a mean punch, connecting with my shoulder and another to the chest. I jab at him quick and fast, trying to get close enough to wrap my arms around his neck and end him, but he gets an opening and takes it. His fist sails toward my face and I block, leaving my body open. Reaper’s brass knuckles land square on my stab wound and I stumble. Pain ricochets through my body, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. He charges me, hitting me again in the same spot, and this time, my vision goes black for a few seconds, until another blow to the face wakes me up again.
With one hand clutching my leaking wound, I raise a fist and I swing, barely clipping him in the face. I swing again, cracking one of his ribs. It’s not enough though, and the bile churning in my stomach is getting worse with each second that passes. Noticing me slowing down and growing weak, the Reaper charges and our bodies go flying to the floor again. I wrestle against his strength, taking each of his dazing blows until I manage to wrangle free the weapon still in my back pocket. Swinging toward his jugular, I lodge the knife into his neck and yank it out immediately.
I roll his dazed, gurgling body off mine and swing the knife down until his gurgling stops.
Unsteadily, I get to my feet and add more pressure to my stomach. The stitches are ripped open. I can feel them. The pain causes a sickly sweat to break across my skin.
I’m so out of it, I don’t even process when they moved Reaper or brought in the other guy. I grip onto the handle of the knife and focus on his hazy form that keeps splitting in two. He prowls forward, raising the long item in his hand, I realize too late what it is. The bat sails toward me and I stumble back, but a piercing pain catches my leg, keeping me from moving. When I look down, I realize it’s a nail. There are fucking nails sticking out of the damn thing. Curling my hand into a fist, I swing, landing a blow, and he yanks the bat, the nail dragging through my flesh, tearing my skin and tendons before exiting my thigh. Fire
burns from the wound, and I know I won’t last much longer. I jab the knife, cutting him. I swing with my fist, then jab again, this time lodging the knife in his arm. He roars but doesn’t let go of the fucking bat. He swings the damn thing, and I duck, yanking my knife out.
My leg wobbles, threatening to give out beneath me. The muscles and ligaments in my thigh are mangled and torn. I get it. This is Arthur’s payback. Unfair matches. My death a looming incident.
I feel myself swaying. My stomach churns as I try to focus on my opponent. Clenching my teeth to stave off the pain, I dodge another swing of his bat, and it just barely misses me. I feel the wind of the wood and a few nails scrape my cheek. Tossing my body forward, I manage to stab him in his stomach. He stumbles back and tries to pull the knife free, but I don’t give him a chance. With a roar, I charge. Wrestling him to the floor, I lodge the knife in deeper and curse when he swings the bat down, the nails embedding into my back. It isn’t as deep as my leg, I can tell right away, but fuck, it hurts like a bitch. Launching my arm back, it sails down toward his face, the blow stunning him long enough for me to try to pry the damn bat out.
My raw, animalistic yell fills the space around us as I yank it out and stumble to my feet. I look down at my opponent, who’s growling in pain as he tries to pull the knife out. I don’t give him a chance to finish. Swinging the bat over my head, I slam it down on his face. The wood and the nails dig into his skull, spraying me with blood. The bat hangs up in the air, attached to his head, defying gravity.
As they drag the fourth body away, the announcer starts talking just as my last opponent struts through the ring.
“New rules from the big man,” his voice booms throughout the space. “No weapons for you this time,” he says, addressing me. I bare my teeth in a snarl, knowing Arthur probably wants me to lose.
I toss the knife and bat toward the announcer and square up. Shaking my fists out, I raise them, rocking on the balls of my feet, waiting for this shit to be over. My body is shutting down, I can feel it. My eyes are starting to swell, making it difficult to see clearly.
I fix my gaze on the brick wall of a man across from me. I blow out a haggard sigh when he drops a thick metal chain to the floor and winds it around his fist.
“For fuck’s sake…” I wheeze through the pain.
With the chain in his hold, he steps toward me baring gold teeth. His dreadlocks are held back by a rubber band, and his deep mocha hands are the size of fucking sledgehammers. His arms are so thick, they look like fucking tree trunks.
“Remember the name Malachai,” the beefed-up man grunts, his hold tightening on the thick chain.
“Why is that?” I huff out through the pain.
He smiles. “Because it’ll be the name that puts you in the ground, pretty boy.”
* * *
My head jerks to the side again, my face throbbing with pain from his fist. I swing at him, but he dodges easily, slapping my attempt away with a chuckle. I feel like this fight has dragged on for hours. Malachai’s smarter than the rest of my previous opponents. He doesn’t charge first. He watches and waits. He studies. He looks for my weaknesses and tries to find every spot I’m hurt in to use it against me.
I’m tired. My body’s tired. It shows in this fight. None of my punches are landing, and when they are, they don’t even faze him. He has me beat in height and is solid with slabs of too much muscle. Each blow from him is detrimental. The darkness stays a little longer with each hit, and the pain becomes harder and harder to suppress.
Malachai swings the chain, making painful contact. I stumble back, shaking my head, but it doesn’t help. My body feels heavy. My eyes are damn-near sealed shut that’s how swollen they are, but I keep going. I keep fighting. Another punch to the ribs, a jab to my temple. The blood is pounding in my ears; my movements feel almost sluggish, like everything is in slow motion, which works in my benefit. I finally see my opening, and I take it. I jab him straight in the face, and just like I expect him to, he moves his arms to block and I go in on his body, knocking the air out of him with blow after blow. I land a mean right hook that dazes him. With enough time, I grab the tail end of chain off the floor that he used on me earlier and wrap it around his neck and squeeze. He fights me, banging his body against mine, but I pull tighter. I grit my teeth and yell as I tighten my hold, refusing to let go when his big body thrusts me off.
I pull and pull until I hear a crack, and everything stops. I let go of the chain and his body crumples to the floor. Unmoving. Not breathing.
Dead.
Five men.
The crowd is silent. They stare on at me, almost in disbelief, and slowly, I drag my gaze up to Arthur’s throne and find his silhouette standing. I drag my body up off the gory and bloody floor. The room tilts and the ceiling spins.
I’m escorted out of the Bowels, up to where Arthur is. People congratulate me. Others take a wary step back. I don’t even remember walking here, but before I know it, I’m swaying before Arthur as he watches me, his gaze roving over me with a sick smile on his face. There’s something in his eyes. I can’t tell what exactly, my face is so fucked I can’t even see, but dare I say he looks almost in disbelief and if I’m not mistaken, proud.
He places a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezes. I hiss out a quiet breath of pain. My shirt is drenched with blood, half mine, the other half belonging to five men.
“You look like shit, Perc.”
I chuckle. The sound is dark and wet, like I have blood in my lungs.
“Five men and five hundred mill. I always knew you were an asset, Percivale. Go get cleaned up. You can expect a call from me soon.”
I nod and before I turn to leave, I open my mouth to make sure our deal is still in effect, but he beats me to it. “You have my word.”
With a resolute nod, I stumble out of the Bowels. Alive.
Total Eclipse of the Heart
Blossom
“Blossom, sweetie, can you open the door please?” Her light knocks echo throughout my apartment.
I don’t get up to let my mother in. I don’t do anything but stare up at the ceiling blankly. It’s been six weeks since I was dragged away from Percivale. Since he gave his life for mine. Just thinking about him, gone, cold, buried some place underground, it hurts. And it’s all my fault. I was so stupid. I made so many mistakes. The biggest one of them all, hurting him. He may have died by Arthur’s hand, but he knew my self-inflicted wound was there.
For what feels like the hundredth time within the last hour, pressure builds behind my eyes and I clench them shut, trying to stop the tears from falling. Stop the pain from plowing into my chest, but it comes anyway. It hurts. More than I thought it would. I keep replaying every moment I had with Percivale. I’ve tried committing every piece of him to my memory, and my mind is already forgetting his mannerisms, his rare smile, his broody expressions. He’s fading, and the realization is a vise around my heart. I don’t want him to fade. I don’t want him gone. I want him here.
In the last six weeks, I’ve let everything go. My bakery. My life. But the one thing that has been a constant? Grief. It wraps cold and savage around my heart. I tried going back to the bakery, but the minute I stepped foot inside, everything hit me all at once. Our first meeting, the way he saved me. There wasn’t any evidence in there that was proof he ever stumbled into my life. No dead body. No mess of blood on the floor. No police reports were filed after those gunshots so many months ago. It was like nothing ever happened. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want a clean slate or a fresh start—all I wanted was Percivale.
“I’m coming in, Blossom Avery Jaymes, whether you like it or not.” My mother’s voice echoes from the other side of the front door. I should make it easier on her, get up and let her in, but I don’t. The only thing my body knows how to do anymore is get up to use the restroom, bathe, and eat. That’s all I can manage at this point.
The sound of the front door opening and my mom’s soft footsteps have me turning onto
my side, giving my back to my bedroom door. I stare blankly out of the window, thinking about Percivale. Always Percivale.
“Oh, honey,” my mom breathes out from the threshold of my room. The corner of the bed dips with her weight, and she places a hand on my hip. Normally I’d seek her warmth, but not right now. I want to wallow; I want to grieve for a man I’m 90 percent sure I was in love with, not be consoled.
“Please talk to me, Blossom. Your dad is worried—we’re both worried. You haven’t given us a call or FaceTimed us in weeks.”
I almost bark out a laugh at the mention of our weekly FaceTime chats. Percivale was right all along, I’m just a fucking princess.
“Mrs. Smith across the hall says you haven’t left your apartment. And you haven’t been to the bakery in almost two months.”
I remain silent, and I hear my mom’s huff of frustration. “You can’t keep this up, Blossom. You can’t be this irresponsible. After all the loans and the schooling and the hard work you put into this bakery, you’re just going to let it go? Like that? Whatever has you so down can be put on the back burner. I know how much this means to you; you wouldn’t still be paying for the fees and electricity on the bakery if you didn’t care.”
A thrum of energy sizzles down my spine at her words. Slowly, I roll onto my back and look up at her, my brows furrowed. “What?”
Her eyes narrow. “Were you even listening to me?”
“What did you say about the bills? About everything getting paid.”
“That you’ve been paying the bills?” She shrugs. “Why are you being so weird? Don’t you remember paying for the stuff? Or does it come out automatically?”
