Page 34 of Knuckles & Knives
The cage looms ahead, octagonal and unforgiving, surrounded by three tiers of seats filled with the kind of people who find entertainment in violence and profit in blood. Money changes hands in the shadows as bets are placed, odds calculated on whether I’ll survive the first round against Valentina “The Viper” Santos, a Brazilian fighter who’s killed two opponents in unsanctioned matches and left dozens more permanently damaged.
I chose her specifically. If I’m going to announce my return to this world, it needs to be decisive.
My hands are already wrapped, the white tape stark against my black sports bra and fitted shorts. I’ve forgone the elaborate entrance outfits that some fighters prefer. Tonight isn’t about theatrics. It’s about proving that five years of exile have honed my body into that of a fighter.
As I approach the cage, my eyes automatically scan the crowd, finding them exactly where I expected them to be.
Dom stands at the edge of the VIP section closest to the cage, his massive frame tense with barely controlled energy. He hasn’t said a word about tonight’s fight, but I caught him running his hands through his hair repeatedly during our brief strategy session earlier. For a man who’s seen hundreds of fights, he looks surprisingly anxious.
Marcus occupies the elevated booth that provides the best tactical view of the entire arena. His expression is unreadable behind his designer glasses, but I can see the way his fingers tap against his thigh in a rhythm that suggests he’s running calculations, analyzing every possible outcome and preparing contingencies I haven’t even considered.
Kieran has claimed a spot at the high-roller bar, surrounded by other syndicate heirs and underground elite. His ice-blue eyes track my movement with predatory focus, and there’s something sharp and dangerous in his posture that makes my pulse spike. He’s dressed to kill in an expensive charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people make in a month, playing the part of the sophisticated crime prince even as his knuckles show white around his whiskey glass.
And Axel perches in the rafters like some feral creature, having somehow gained access to maintenance areas that should be impossible to reach. His silver-streaked hair catches the arena lights as he moves with that fluid, otherworldly grace that makes him seem more shadow than man. He’s grinningdown at me with wild delight, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s technically trespassing in a highly secured area.
All four of them watching. All four of them invested in my survival in ways that should complicate everything.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice booms through the sound system, “tonight’s main event features the return of underground royalty. In the red corner, weighing in at one hundred and forty pounds, the heir to the Blackwood legacy… Raven!”
The crowd’s response is mixed—cheers from those who remember my father’s reign, boos from those who supported the families that took him down, and hungry anticipation from everyone else who just wants to see blood spilled on the canvas.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar pre-fight calm settle over me like armor. This is where I belong, not in boardrooms or safe houses or the complicated emotional territory I’ve been navigating with four dangerous men. Here, in the cage, everything is simple. Win or lose. Survive or fall.
“And in the blue corner,” the announcer continues, “weighing in at one hundred and thirty-five pounds, with a record of twenty-three wins, two kills, and zero losses… Valentina ‘The Viper’ Santos!”
Valentina emerges from the opposite tunnel like a lioness scenting wildebeest. She’s smaller than me but more compact, all lean muscle and coiled violence. Her dark hair is braided tight against her skull, and the intricate tattoos covering her arms tell the story of every life she’s taken, every victory she’s claimed. When she looks at me, her smile is sharp enough to cut glass.
The referee calls us to the center of the cage for final instructions, but I barely hear the words. My focus has narrowed to the woman across from me, to the way she moves, the slight favor she shows her left leg that suggests an old injury, the wayher eyes track to my hands first. She’s a grappler who prefers ground work.
“Touch gloves if you want to,” the referee says, though it’s clear neither of us has any intention of showing that kind of respect.
Valentina’s grin widens. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, little princess.”
“You’re welcome to try,” I reply, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The referee steps back, raises his hand, and brings it down with finality. “Fight!”
Valentina comes at me immediately, trying to close the distance and take me to the ground where her grappling advantage would be decisive, but I’ve been expecting this. Dom spent hours drilling takedown defense with me, preparing me for exactly this scenario.
I pivot left, using her momentum against her, and drive an elbow toward her temple. She ducks under it with liquid grace, but the movement puts her exactly where I want her. My knee comes up hard, aiming for her solar plexus, and I feel the satisfying impact as it connects.
She grunts but doesn’t go down, instead wrapping her arms around my leg and driving forward, trying to dump me on my back. For a moment we’re locked together, a tangle of sweat and determination, each fighting for positional advantage.
The crowd roars its approval as we break apart, both of us breathing hard but neither showing damage yet. Valentina circles me like her namesake, looking for an opening, and I can see the respect in her eyes that wasn’t there before. I’m not the soft princess she expected.
She feints left and comes right, her fist whistling past my ear as I lean back just far enough to avoid contact. My counterpunch catches her in the ribs, and she hisses in pain but immediatelyresponds with a vicious hook that would have taken my head off if I hadn’t been moving.
We trade combinations for what feels like hours but is probably less than a minute, neither of us able to land anything decisive. She’s faster than I anticipated, but I have reach and power advantages that keep her from overwhelming me.
Then she makes a mistake. She drops her guard for just a split second while setting up what looks like a spectacular spinning backfist. It’s the kind of showboat move that plays well to the crowd but leaves you vulnerable if you don’t commit fully.
I don’t hesitate. My straight right hand travels less than eight inches but lands with all the force I can generate, catching her flush on the chin just as she’s rotating into the spin.
The sound of impact echoes through the suddenly quiet arena. Valentina’s eyes go wide for just a moment before she crumples, her body going completely limp as she hits the canvas.
The referee is over her immediately, checking for consciousness, but I already know she’s done. That punch had everything behind it—five years of training, months of preparation, and all the rage I’ve been carrying since my father’s murder.
Seconds tick by. She’s not moving. For a breath, I wonder if I’ve become exactly what I feared—another name on the kill list, another monster in the ring—but then I see her chest rise. Relief cuts deeper than any victory roar.
