Page 52 of Bride By Initiation

I duck out of the way and sweep my leg against his shin, catching him off guard.

He falls to the ground face-first, and a dust cloud rises three feet in the air.

The audience yells louder and claps.

I jump over the beast, and grip his ponytail as tight as possible. I slam his head into the dirt, slide my hand under his chin, and yank it toward me as fast as possible.

A crack fills the air, and his eyes roll. His heavy head goes limp in my hold.

I release it and jump up, pumping my fist in the air.

"Two! Two! Two!" the crowd screams.

Byrne pulls me to the chair as six men work to remove the mammoth corpse. When they finally get him up, the crowd parts, and then they all disappear.

The woman gives me more water.

Byrne rubs my shoulders and shouts in my ear, "Two down! Eleven to go!"

I move my mouth away from the bottle. "Eleven?" Water drips down my chin.

"Drink," he orders, pointing.

I repeat, "Eleven?"

"Aye. Your bid number is thirteen. We never have thirteen. No one makes it. But you're going to, lad. Now, drink," he demands.

The woman moves the bottle back to my mouth.

My chest tightens, but I drink.

The crowd chants, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

I try to take a few deep breaths as I glance over at my next victim.

He's shorter than me, and I suspect he's faster. He's a pretty boy with blond hair and blue eyes. He's muscular, but it's from gym equipment, and I suspect he spends most of his days at the country club.

The bell rings, and we step to the line.

It's not even a battle. One hit, and he falls on his hands and knees. Within seconds, I end his life.

Over and over, I kill each of my opponents until Byrne finally states, "Twelve. Ya got one left, lad."

Out of breath, swollen, and low on energy, I drink some water and stare at the final man who stands in the way of my life.

Blood and sweat drip off me. My knuckles are split open, and my foot is shaking from kicking hard without a shoe to protect it.

My opponent's back is toward me. He drops his pants, puts on a black pair of shorts, removes his shirt and shoes, then spins toward me.

We lock gazes, and my pulse skyrockets. Diesel Conway, a boxer I've fought too many times to count, clenches his jaw in recognition. His dark eyes glow with the same killer instinct I'm sure I have in mine.

Over the years, we've traded wins and losses against one another. His skills match mine, but we've always stuck to the rules and structure of the boxing world.

Now, none of that matters. Diesel clearly wants to be the one breathing when this is over. And he's fresh, while I'm exhausted from killing twelve other men.

The bell rings, and we step to the line. Neither of us tear our focus off the other.

The moment the whistle sounds, we fall into a familiar rhythm.

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