Page 31 of Retaliation

Staring at her watch, Poison focused on the seconds ticking away. Eleven o’clock. Still no show of Reaper. She was so sure that he would be there. Cat had left her and Skel in the locker room to pursue some nomad she saw walking by.

“I don’t think he’s coming,” Skel answered as if hearing her thoughts.

“Did you hear why he was back in the city?”

“My sources couldn’t say. And before you ask, I don’t believe it is for your territory. If he were here for that, he would have already made a move.”

She gave Skel an appreciative smile. He anticipated her every thought as if he had tapped into a direct line into her mind. She didn’t know what she had done to have him in her life, but she was eternally grateful that he was.

“You don’t know Reaper like I do,” She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest. “He has no moral code. And no remorse.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked this, but why didn’t he take over the crew? I mean, he won the death match. The rules are clear—the fallen’s territory and crew belong to the victor.”

She watched Skel from the corner of her eye, taking a deep breath before she answered him.

“It’s because of the rules that he didn’t,” she answered, trying to keep any sign of emotion from her face. “I sometimes forget you weren’t here from the beginning. He broke the two-week truce. He ambushed Jonathan, and when my brother fell, the crew nominated me as his successor. According to the rules, if a truce was broken, the power of selecting a leader falls to the members.”

Flashbacks of that night clawed at her mind, a relentless assault of memories she wished she could erase. The image of her brother’s limp body on her lap haunted her, the life draining from his eyes as she held him, powerless to do anything.

The rest of the crew had arrived too late to save their leader, their panic and fury too little, too late. And she—what had she done? She had been a fucking coward.

Instead of jumping in to help him, instead of fighting with every ounce of strength she had, she had hidden. She had crouched behind the bleachers, paralyzed by fear, watching as Reaper—the man who was supposed to protect Jonathan—had killed him in cold blood.

The scene replayed in her mind, over and over, a sickening loop that had tortured her for years. She had tried to contact the crew, her hands shaking as she fumbled with her phone, praying that someone more experienced would come to save Jonathan. But deep down, she knew it should have been her. She should have been the one to stand by his side, to protect him, to fight until her last breath. Instead, she had done nothing.

The guilt, the shame, the self-loathing—it all surged to the surface, threatening to drown her in a sea of emotions she had buried for so long. She shook her head violently, desperate to drive away the thoughts that had haunted her for so many years. Not now. She couldn’t afford to lose control now.

“Wouldn’t his second have taken over?” The question pierced through her turmoil, dragging her back to the present.

“Reaper was his second,” she growled, her voice low and venomous, as if speaking his name could summon the monster who had shattered her world. The mere thought of him ignited a blazing wildfire in her blood, the anger so intense it was almost suffocating.

“That son of a bitch was supposed to have Jonathan’s back! Not fucking stab him in it!”

Her voice rose with each word, her rage boiling over, the memories and the pain making it impossible to think straight. She was on the verge of screaming, the pressure building in her chest like a bomb about to explode. By the time she managed to regain a semblance of control, Skel had his hands in the air, his eyes filled with sorrow and understanding.

“P, I would never do that to you,” he promised, his voice gentle, steady, as if trying to soothe the raging storm inside her. And just like that, the anger drained out of her, leaving her feeling hollow, exhausted. She could barely hold herself upright.

“I know, Skel,” she murmured, her chin dipping as shame washed over her. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair to lash out at you. I know you’re not him. I’m just struggling, and I know that’s no excuse.”

“Bridge under water,” he said with a small smile, forgiving her with a simple phrase that somehow made the weight on her shoulders a little lighter. He paused, thinking for a moment. “So Reaper would have known the rules. He’d have known breaking the truce meant he didn’t get the territory. Would there have been any other way?”

“The only way he could have gotten his hands on my territory that night was to challenge me to a death match as well,” she replied, the words tasting bitter.

“If he was after Shadow’s territory, why didn’t he?” His question hung in the air, heavy with the uncertainty and confusion that had plagued her for more than a decade.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Skel. I’ve been asking that very same question for the past thirteen years,” she admitted, her voice tinged with the weariness of someone who had been searching for answers for far too long.

She turned away from him, unable to bear his concerned gaze any longer. Pulling her leather jacket from her shoulders, she retrieved her wraps from her bag and sat down on a nearby bench. The familiar routine of wrapping her hands brought a small measure of comfort, the tightness of the fabric grounding her, giving her something solid to focus on.

“Put my name on the list,” she ordered him, her voice devoid of emotion, as if she had already made peace with what she was about to do.

“What are you going to do?” His voice was laced with worry, but she refused to look at him, afraid that if she did, she might lose the fragile composure she had managed to cling to.

“I’m going to draw him out. If he is here, he will seize the opportunity to face me,” she replied, her tone steely, determined. There was no room for doubt, no hesitation. This was something she had to do, something that had been a long time coming.

When he remained standing, his concern pressing down on her, she finally turned to glare at him, her eyes flashing with a resolve that left no room for argument. “Go,” she commanded, and this time, he obeyed, turning on his heel with his chin dipped in a reluctant nod.

As he walked away, she returned to wrapping her hands, each loop of the fabric a reminder of what she had lost, of what she was willing to do to reclaim her honor, her brother’s memory, and perhaps, in some small way, her own redemption.

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