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She gives me a sunny smile and two thumbs-up, screaming, “Kick his ass!” Beside her, Tristian Mercer’s eyes narrow suspiciously. I worry for a moment that he might understand—mightsee.

Because even though the fear I voiced to Nick earlier was real—I genuinely do want the respect of the frat—there’s something else on the line tonight.

And I don’t just mean my ass.

I enter my corner of the ring just as Sy enters his, and I’m both delighted and tormented by the sight of his bare, flexing chest. He’s dressed to fight in his loose, red and gold shorts. His hands are wound with red wraps, and I have to admit that it’s oddly pleasing to see the same stony set of his brow I’d find at the beginning of any of his other matches.

Over the distance, he meets my gaze, lifting his chin in greeting, anddamn.

Win or lose—ass or pussy—I’m getting some ofthattonight.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Remy’s silky voice slithers through the speakers, only to be met with various cries of, “And Duchesses! And Baronesses! Princesses!” Remy gives the crowd of women an appreciative brow-raise. “Whoever you all are, you better stand the fuck up.” To punctuate this, he does just that, climbing onto the table to address the crowd. Mama B rolls her eyes at his antics, but he continues, “You’re about to witness history in the making. This is the first Queenmaker match since 1942, and never has there been a match more important to the people of West End. The battle of our beauty and her beast. War of the sexes. A fuschia fury. A fight so important that—” His energetic green eyes meet mine. He pauses, seeing the scowl on my face. “I mean,” he adds, “hey, no pressure, beautiful. Anyway,” he goes on, nonplussed, “In the blue corner, we have Lavinia Lucia, the heiress to North Side, our former Duchess, the one we call Queen!”

Around the ring, the cutsluts whistle and cheer.

“But in the red corner,” he gestures expansively toward Sy, “we have the undefeated Perilini, our former Duke, West End’s reigning King!”

Now, the DKS members whistle and cheer. The new generation of Dukes are tending to Sy’s corner, Porterfieldhanding his King a water bottle and a towel while Kaz checks his knuckle wraps.

Feeling a phantom electric charge behind me, I glance back to realize Nick’s climbed up to be in my corner. Him and Sy are both staring at Remy much like I am, exasperation warring with fondness.

“I think he likes this better than being in the ring himself,” Nick says, giving one of my French braids a gentle tug. “Look alive, Little Bird. Whatever you do, don’t let him sweep your feet. It’s his signature move.”

“I know.” Leaning on the rope, I give Nick a sparkling, vicious smile. “I trained with him long enough to know his moves.”

Nick turns his narrowed blue eyes on me. “Should I be worried that I’ve been training with you for the past three weeks? You planning to use this against me?”

I shrug. “Only if I need to.”

I see his throaty chuckle more than I hear it, the crowd swelling with another cheer. “Remember that night we first met,” he reaches up to touch my chin, nudging it upward, “when you kicked me in the face?”

I stare into his blue eyes, surprised to call up the memory with more of a smile than a grimace. “You made the cutest little squawking sound.”

His brows slam low. “I’ve never made a cute squawking sound in my life.”

“It was thecutest,” I argue. “Like a wounded baby owl.”

Rolling his eyes, he spins me toward the center of the ring. Warm lips find my neck and I tilt my head, eyes fluttering as Nick bestows his good luck kiss on me.

Of course, it ends up being more of a good luckhickey.

After admiring his handwork, he brings a palm down on my ass. “We’ll get some cute squawking sounds out of you tonight. To the victor, Little Bird.”

Sy and I approach the center, touching our fists together a mere blink before the bell rings out.

The crowd erupts in a swell of electricity.

“Nervous?” he wonders, circling me.

Yes.

I circle him back. “Nope.”

The spotlight above carves dark hollows in his cheeks, turning his eyes into blots of shadow, but I know he’s tracking my hands and feet. He’s stalking me. Measuring me up.

“You’re going to have to strike first,” Nick told me during training.

So that’s what I do.