Page 33 of Retaliation

He came at her again, aiming a vicious blow, but this time she was ready. With a quick shift of her weight, she ducked under his swing and countered with a devastating kick to his ribs. Her heel connected with a satisfying thud, the force of it sending him stumbling backward.

The crowd roared, their voices a racket that echoed in the cavernous space, but she didn’t let it distract her. She pressed her advantage, moving in with a flurry of

strikes, each one calculated to chip away at his defenses. Her fists were a blur, her blows relentless, and she could feel him weakening under the onslaught. His movements grew sluggish, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but she didn’t let up. This wasn’t just a fight—it was a message.

Then, in a flash, she saw it—an opening, a split-second window of vulnerability. Pivoting on her heel, she delivered a roundhouse kick that connected with his ear, the impact stunning him. He wavered, his balance momentarily lost, and in that heartbeat of hesitation, she struck. Her fists flew, each blow finding its mark with brutal efficiency, each strike driving him closer to the brink of defeat.

The crowd held their breath, the air thick with the raw intensity of the moment, as she executed her signature move; a roundhouse tornado kick. Her body moved with a grace that belied the power behind it, a perfect fusion of speed and strength. With a final, bone-crunching kick, she sent her opponent crashing to the mat, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

It was over.

The referee raised Poison’s hand in victory, and she stood tall, her chest heaving, her heart pounding like a war drum. The cheers of the crowd washed over her, a deafening wave of adulation that she absorbed like a lifeline. This was her domain, her throne, and she had defended it with every ounce of skill and fury she possessed.

As the announcer’s voice rang out, calling for the next fight, she stepped out of the ring, her expression unreadable. Behind her, the Don’s soldiers moved in, lifting her fallen opponent and carrying him out. Skel was there at the edge of the platform, his hand outstretched to help her down. She took it, her gaze meeting his with a wordless exchange.

“Any sign of him?” she yelled into Skel’s ear as they navigated through the chaotic energy of the crowd, the noise almost deafening around them. Her voice was edged with frustration, her words clipped and sharp, but Skel only shook his head.

“Fuck,” she muttered, the word slipping out before she could stop it, a harsh exhale of breath that barely cut through the clamor. She pushed through the door into the locker room. Her lip throbbed with every step, a dull, persistent ache that flared with each heartbeat.

Instinctively, her hand went to her mouth, her fingers brushing against the tender skin. The sting of pain was immediate, sharper than she expected, and she flinched when she pulled her hand away, seeing the smear of blood on her fingertips. The sight of it only served to deepen her frustration.

“You should have that checked out,” Skel said, as he nodded toward her lip. His eyes flicked to her face, searching for any sign that she was in more pain than she let on.

“It’s just a cut. I’ve had worse,” she replied

dismissively, her tone curter than she intended.

She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to acknowledge the discomfort. Instead, she focused on unwrapping her hands, the tight bandages revealing the mottled blue and purple bruises forming on her knuckles. The sight was almost comforting, a familiar ritual of pain and recovery that she had long since grown used to.

“P, don’t be a stubborn ass. Go and see Nick,” he pressed, his voice softer now, but firm. He wasn’t asking—he was telling. She could feel his eyes on her, the concern in his. But she wasn’t in the mood for coddling.

“I said it’s fine, Skeldon. Don’t push,” she warned, the words carrying the hard edge of finality.

She flexed her hands, feeling for any fractures, the discomfort a dull throb that she forced herself to ignore. She didn’t have time to waste on minor injuries—not when there were bigger things at stake.

But Skel wasn’t backing down. “Too late,” he said with a smirk, but his eyes serious. “I already texted him that you’re on your way.”

She shot him a glare, irritation and reluctant gratitude bubbling up inside her. Skel knew her too well, knew when to push her even when she didn’t want to be pushed. She sighed, the fight draining out of her as she realized that, as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Her body had been through hell tonight, and ignoring it wouldn’t make the pain go away. It would only make it worse.

“Fine,” she grumbled, her voice carrying more exhaustion than defiance.

Patting her on the shoulder, he headed back into the arena. She smiled, shaking her head. She knew he was only looking out for her, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have the cut looked at before it scarred.

She grabbed her duffle bag from the locker and made her way to the arena, the roar of the crowd a distant hum in her ears as she approached Skel again. The fight in the ring was brutal, the two men crashing into each other with a force that made the ground beneath her vibrate. She barely glanced at them, her focus shifting entirely to Skel as she joined him by the bleachers.

“You on the list tonight?” she asked, her eyes flicking briefly to the ring before settling on him.

He gave a slow nod, the tension in his posture speaking volumes. It was a subtle movement, but she caught the shift in his gaze, the way he weighed her presence.

“You need me to stick around?” she asked, turning her head to meet his eyes.

“You go and see Nick. I’ve got this covered,” he replied.

“Let me know if you hear anything about Reaper,” she added, her voice dropping slightly.

His chin dipped in acknowledgment, their unspoken understanding passing between them in a heartbeat. There was no need for drawn-out goodbyes.

They knew the game, knew the stakes, and knew each other too well to waste time on sentimentality.

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