Page 37

First, there’s an enormous Family Dinner known for Thanksgiving. It’s not just about inviting everyone to our table, but also about driving three vans full of food to the elderly alumni, the homeless shelters, and a new addition for this year, Remy’s addict support group.

Then, there’s Christmas with the Lords. Their parties are always so big that they span entire city blocks. There’s the charity event at the hospital, which Sy attended with Lex and Tristian again this year, and then a whole night of festivities with Nick and Sy’s parents.

But the final holiday event—and by far the most exciting—is Screw Year’s Eve. Traditionally, it’s a comical, Jell-O-slipperied match between house girls, but since Verity is still recovering from giving birth, and there is no Countess anymore, that leaves only our new Duchess, South Side’s new Lady, and the Baroness. A bit of a thin ticket.

My match with Sy is perfect timing.

As I sit contemplating whether or not Kathleen needs tips on the finer points of tit smacking, Nick wraps my knuckles. The locker room is quiet and much too still—the calm before the storm. Sy and Remy are in the other locker room, getting ready. I’ve been their ring girl more times than I can count, sitting right where Nick is, holding my Dukes’ hands in mine as I wound the tape over their knuckles.

Now, I’m the one fighting a shiver from his gentle touch.

“We’re on opposite sides of the bench,” I note, matching his grin when he glances up at me through his lashes.

“I did this for you once—kind of.” Nick must be talking about my match with Haley. “Tit slaps won’t help you much this time, but you can scratch him like it’s a chick fight. He’ll love it.”

I arch an eyebrow. “That’s one way of drawing blood.” But I’d never do it. As much as him throwing the fight would be an affront to me, bringing out girl-fight tactics to bleed him with as little effort as possible would be an affront to him.

Nick hums, winding the tape around my thumb. “‘First blood’ can be a tricky match against the wrong person. Sy won’t want to get too close. Grappling is automatically out, which is a shame. The way he’s been salivating over your ass lately would be the perfect tactical distraction.”

“Or I could hide a knife in my sock,” I say, giving him a knowing look.

Nick rolls his eyes. “It wasone time, and I was making a point. Play dirty against dirty play.”

But that’s the thing about Sy. He’s not a dirty kind of player. Being in the ring… it means something to him. It’s hallowed ground. He respects it. Worships it. It’s not enough to draw blood. He needs to know he’s earned his spoils. Because Simon Perilini understands something no one else in this whole city does.

The difference between a win and a victory.

Slowly, my smile falls. “Hey, Nick?”

He flicks his eyes up. “Yeah, Little Bird?”

“If I lose, it’d be worse than if I never did this at all, wouldn’t it?” The words are spoken in a whisper, a secret worry passed over the distance. Even though this is something I want to do, the risk is only now sinking in. I can beat Sy. I know I can. But can I be the victor tonight? “If I lose, they’re never going to respect me.”

He could say something about the fighters of West End respecting anyone who chooses to get into the ring with SimonPerilini, who’s undefeated. He could say that’s what this is—my choice, which I fought tooth and nail for. He could tease me for having cold feet, or say I have nothing to worry about, or tell me I’m free to call it off, take him home, and ride his cock into the sunset.

Instead, he tears off the strip of tape, meets my gaze, and plainly replies, “Then don’t lose.”

And somehow it’s exactly what I need to hear.

Nick had been right beforeabout the ticket sales.

Of course, it’s probably more about the upcoming Jell-O and tit-slapping angle than anything, but when I climb into the ring, I look out over the crowd of people from all corners of Forsyth and see far more women here than I ever have before.

There areso manyof them. The crowd of cutsluts isn’t a surprise, but I can also spot the South Side women by the betting table, dressed to the nines. Verity’s East End court is grouped together along an aisle, glittering and buoyant. And if I look hard enough, I’m pretty sure I can see some of the Barons’ female shadows.

Most shockingly are the North Side women I recognize from my old life—a couple of Leticia’s old friends—all lingering in the back.

Glancing up toward the box, I see Story, her King, and his seconds-in-command. Verity is here too, although she’s only attending with two of her Princes, so I guess Wicker got stuck with babysitting duty. I’m far more surprised to catch sight of Remy’s father in his horned bronze mask. Instead of training in the back for her upcoming match, the Baroness is sitting primly between her King and her Barons, and when my eyes pass overthem, I’m startled to find her staring back, her dark gaze fixed unsettlingly on me.

She doesn’t know it yet—no one does, except Story and Verity—but she’s a big part of why I’m doing this.

I only hold her stare for a moment, shifting to the men beside her. It doesn’t matter that her Barons are wearing masks, too. One of them I recognize just by the long, lazy curve of his posture. DK is leaning in toward the other Baron and pointing to a banner across the gym. We’d put it up yesterday, a vinyl monstrosity with a photo of the eight kittens. They’re at an awkward age where their ears are strictly horizontal. It makes them all look sad and suspicious.

Over the loudspeaker, Remy is listing off their finer qualities.

“Kitten number five,” he’s saying, and my eyes are drawn to him. He’s sitting at the announcer table next to Mama B, leaning back in the chair. His feet are propped up on the table and he’s holding the microphone in loose fingers, looking as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. “This one’s a doozy. Don’t let those sad blue eyes fool you. This kitten is a fighter.” The DKS members in the room respond with a deafening cheer, and Remy smirks, soaking up their rabid energy like a battery. “Kitten number six is her latest victim, so if there are any bleeding hearts out there, take mercy on this poor, bullied soul. Don’t we all know the anguish of being denied a tit?”

Glancing above him, I catch Story’s eye, dipping my chin in a nod.