Page 45 of Reaper & Ruin
Danika moved first. She lunged, the blade flashing toward my ribs. I twisted at the last second, her knife grazing my sideand leaving a shallow cut that burned like fire. The scent of blood hit my nose, and my stomach churned. My instincts took over, and I retaliated with a wild swing aimed at her shoulder.
She ducked, her counterstrike coming in low. I barely managed to sidestep, my pulse pounding in my ears as her blade sliced through the air where my thigh had been moments ago.
The first blow was always the hardest. After that, the fear dulled, replaced by something colder. Sharper.
Survival.
“More,” the voice barked from the speaker, startling me into an even tighter grip on the knife. My knuckles ached from the pressure, but I didn’t let go. “Fight harder.”
Danika didn’t hesitate. She pressed forward, her strikes quick and precise, her movements calculated to keep me on the defensive. I blocked one blow, then another, the clash of metal against metal ringing out in the otherwise silent room. Each hit sent vibrations up my arms, the dull ache making my fingers tremble.
I swung toward her midsection, a desperate move meant to create space between us, but she danced out of range, her movements fluid and effortless. My frustration grew with every failed attempt, every second that ticked by, with neither of us gaining the upper hand.
Then, without warning, the music started.
It wasn’t music—not really. It was noise. Screeching, high-pitched, and unbearable, blasting from the hidden speakers with a force that made my teeth ache. It drilled into my skull, splintering my focus and sending a wave of nausea rolling through me.
I saw Danika flinch, her brows knitting together as the sound hit her too, but she recovered quickly. She always did.Long gone were the days that she cried or felt sick at the sight of blood.
Long gone were the days she acted like a human and not a toy.
Her blade darted out, nicking my arm and leaving a thin line of red in its wake. I hissed, stumbling back a step, but she didn’t let up. She was relentless.
We fought in a brutal, desperate rhythm, the music making every movement harder, every breath a struggle. Blood slicked my side where her earlier strike had landed, the warmth of it trickling down my skin in a slow, steady stream. A matching cut on her thigh dripped steadily onto the floor, leaving smudges of red against the cold gray concrete.
Then the timer appeared.
Bright red numbers projected onto the wall behind her.
Three minutes.
Danika’s gaze flicked to it for a split second before snapping back to me. Her jaw clenched, her grip on the knife tightening. She knew what that timer meant. So did I.
If there weren’t a winner by the time it hit zero, we’d both lose. And losing wasn’t an option.
She lunged again, faster this time, her blade aimed at my throat. I ducked, slamming my shoulder into her chest and shoving her back a step. She staggered but didn’t fall, her knife slashing upward in a vicious arc that grazed my forearm. Pain flared hot, but I barely registered it. Adrenaline burned through me, drowning out everything else.
The numbers ticked down.
Two minutes.
Danika fought dirty. She always had. Her foot lashed out, catching me in the knee, then right between my thighs. Pain exploded through me, doubling me over and sending the knifeclattering from my grasp. Before I could recover, her knee came up hard into my ribs, knocking the wind from my lungs.
I went down hard, coughing and gasping for air. My vision blurred, and the taste of blood filled my mouth. Before I could move, she was on me, her blade pressed to my throat. Her eyes burned into mine, fierce and unyielding, and for a moment, I thought this was it.
I wanted it to be it. To be over. For all the pain to stop.
“Kill me,” I rasped in Russian, my voice barely audible over the blaring noise. “Please, Dani.”
Her hand twitched, the blade pressing a fraction deeper. Then she froze. Something flickered across her face—an emotion I couldn’t name. Her jaw tightened, her gaze hardening, and for a moment, I thought she would finish it.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she let out a sharp breath, her shoulders sagging as she pulled the knife away. Her grip on the blade loosened, and it fell to the floor with a dull clatter.
“You win,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper as she carried on our conversation in both our native tongues.
“What?” I stared at her, disbelief coursing through me.
