Page 2 of Knuckles & Knives
“Then I guesswehave a problem.”
For a long moment, we stare at each other while the crowd surges around us, oblivious to the tension crackling between us like live wire. He looks older, harder, carved from granite and violence. But his eyes still hold that protective warmth I remember from childhood, the look that made me feel safe even in the middle of my father’s dangerous world. He’s only six years older than I am, twenty-nine compared to twenty-three.
I can’t afford to feel safe. Safe girls don’t get revenge.
“We need to talk,” Dom says finally.
“No, we don’t.” I turn to walk away, but his hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. His touch burns like a brand, and I have to fight not to jerk away. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you tell me what you’re really doing here.” His thumb brushes over my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is racing. “And don’t say fighting. We both know you’re here for something else.”
I meet his gaze steadily, letting him see the determination that’s sustained me through five years of planning and preparation. “I’m here to reclaim what was stolen from me.”
“Your father’s empire is gone, Raven. The territories have been carved up between the Sterlings and the Kowalskis. There’s nothing left to reclaim.”
“There’s always something left,” I say softly. “You just have to know where to look.”
His grip tightens fractionally. “This isn’t some game. The people who killed your father… they’re still out there. They’ll kill you too if they discover you’re alive.”
“Let them try.”
The words hang between us like a challenge, and I watch something dark and hungry flicker in Dom’s eyes. He’s always been drawn to dangerous things, and apparently five years haven’t changed that.
“You’ve gotten reckless,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost admiring in his tone.
“I’ve gotten focused.”
The announcer’s voice cuts through our staring contest. “We need a challenger for Ghost Rivera! Come on, folks! Who wants to try their luck against our reigning champion?”
I pull my wrist from Dom’s grasp and start walking toward the cage registration table. “That would be me.”
“Raven, don’t?—”
But I’m already moving, weaving through the crowd with purpose. I can feel Dom’s eyes boring into my back, can sense his internal struggle between stopping me and letting me walk into what he probably sees as certain destruction.
Good. Let him underestimate me. Let them all underestimate me.
The registration clerk looks me up and down skeptically when I approach. “You sure about this, sweetheart? Ghost hasn’t lost a fight in two years.”
“I’m sure.” I slide my fake ID across the table along with the entry fee. “Put me down for the next match.”
As I fill out the paperwork, I’m hyperaware of the attention I’m drawing. Conversations quiet as word spreads that some unknown girl wants to challenge the undefeated champion. Money starts changing hands as odds are calculated and bets are placed. Like I said, let them all underestimate me.
I glance back toward where I left Dom and find him still watching me, his expression unreadable. He’s not the only one, though. In the VIP section above, I spot a figure in an expensive suit observing the proceedings with sharp interest. Even from this distance, I can make out platinum blonde hair and ice-blue eyes that seem to cut through the crowd like laser beams.
Kieran Frost.The heir to the Sterling Syndicate, and the son of the man who ordered my father’s death.
My hand automatically goes to the dagger tattoo on my forearm, and I force myself to breathe deeply. Patience. I need to be smart about this. I cannot let emotion drive my decisions.
But seeing him here, in my father’s old territory, wearing a ten-thousand-dollar suit bought with blood money… It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to march up there and put a blade between his ribs.
“All right, you’re all set,” the clerk says, handing me back my ID. “Match starts in ten minutes. You sure you don’t want to reconsider?”
I flash him a smile that’s all teeth and no warmth. “I’ve been waiting five years for this moment. I’m not backing down now.”
As I walk toward the fighters’ prep area, I catch sight of another familiar face in the crowd. A man in an impeccably tailored suit stands near the bar, designer glasses reflecting the cage lights as he watches me with calculating dark eyes. Marcus Quintana. I remember him from the old days—always in the background, always watching, always three steps ahead of everyone else.
If he’s here… I have to imagine that he knows exactly who I am, just like Dom, which means I’m walking into this fight with more than just Ghost Rivera to worry about.
