Page 25 of Sapphires and Snakes

She snorts. “If you wanna break your wrists, that’s on you.”

“I won’t.”

“Prove it.”

I do. Because, for whatever reason, I always succumb to Zarina’s wishes, always try to meet her needs. Even if it means signing up to be insulted and bruised. I attack fast as a cobra, feigning right before jabbing left, my hand wide open against her upper arm. A smack reverberates between us, and she rolls her eyes, like slap-fighting is an insult to her pride. I would break and bloody my knuckles, but I refuse to mar her skin for this.

Maybe if orgasms were involved.

“You’re going soft for a gangster,” she needles.

My smirk widens as I sing her own words back at her. “Prove it.”

Zarina tries. She bares her teeth in a snarl and attacks. Her glove glances off my chest, skittering up my collarbone before she twirls out of reach. I advance, but she throws another combo with enough force to trip me backward. I duck a swing at my head, barely stop her knee to my gut. For every three I block, she lands one so heavy it staggers me.

And she doesn’t relent. She doesn’t pull her punches. She doesn’t wait for me to recover and fight back. She presses forward, using any advantage I allow her. And stupidly, I allow her several. I thought she wanted another punching bag, but she told me what she needed. A fight. And despite acting the part, I hadn’t committed to the bit.

Not that she hasn’t figured that out already.

I barely block a punch aimed for my diaphragm before it knocks the wind out of me. Rather than dance out of reach like I have been, I press my own advantage—my lack of gloves. I grab Zarina’s wrist and yank her forward. She crashes into my chest as I trap her hand between us, my other hand catching her free arm and pinning it behind her back.

“Wow,” Zarina deadpans, “a hug. Someone help me, I’m so scared.”

I arch a brow in challenge. She matches my expression with her own before she rears her head back. But I was expecting that. I let go with a little push as she throws her weight back, and she loses her balance, crashing to the ground in a heap. I sidestep her legs as they try to trip me up, snatching her ankle and using her momentum to flip her onto her stomach. Before she can recover, I plop down on top of her with a hand pressed into the middle of her back.

“My wrists appear intact,” I taunt.

“For now.” Zarina writhes under me, bucking her hips in an attempt to throw me off.

I re-center my weight and slide my free hand into her hair to grab a fistful with a harsh tug. “I believe the too-soft gangster just wiped the mat with you, princess.”

“Fuck you, Tamayo.” She rams a gloved fist into my forearm and immediately hisses, the action serving only to smack her own face into the mat. But she doesn’t give up. She bucks her hips again, tries to get a hand underneath herself for leverage. I yank her back harder by her hair, neck arched and face red. She grinds her teeth and glares at me out of the corner of her eye. Her elbow aims for my side, but she can’t reach without rolling over, and she can’t roll over without dislodging me. A huff of frustration escapes her.

I lean forward, my weight bearing down on her and forcing the air out of her chest until I’m flush against her. My fingers tighten in her hair, elbow heavy on her bicep as my other hand catches the punch she aims for my face before it can land. I brush my lips over her ear as I grind down on her ass. “I’d much rather fuckyou, princess.”

ZARINA

Icould kill Andrea Tamayo.

I wanted to after today’s meeting. She sat there, quiet and docile, like the princess she accuses me of being. All while Marcus and Alonso spun their false narratives that played into the bullshit expectations of women in their world. A world where I’m nothing but an accessory to power, never the owner of it. And Tamayo saidnothing. Fucking coward.

And although thirty seconds ago I was fully committed to murder in the first degree—which included motive, method, and a disposal plan—at this very moment, my body’s attempting to melt into the mat beneath me. It started the second she slipped her fingers into my hair, like I’ve been conditioned into a Pavlovian response to her harsh grip pulling on my scalp in a delicious combination of sharp pain and tingling pleasure. Trained to give in to my baser urges at the mere suggestion of her wicked touch.

And that realization should fuel the fire of my anger. But it’s difficult to cling to anger when her breasts are pressed against my back, her hips rubbing over my ass, her tongue tracing the edge of my ear.

“Tamayo.” Her name comes out more breathless than the snarled warning I intended.

“Hmm,” she hums her way down my neck, still arched uncomfortably. Breath fans over my carotid, a threat as soft as her lips. She brushes her nose up to my ear again. “Let me fuck you pliant, princess.”

Despite the shiver her words send across my skin, I attempt to buck her off again, baring my teeth with a hiss. “I’m not your princess.”

“We’ll see.” Tamayo chuckles—fuckingchuckles—as she sits up, the heat of her leaving my back, and releases my hair. I let my neck relax and rest my forehead against the mat as I feel her shift above me. She jerks my arm still in her grip backward at the same time she lifts her weight off my ass.

Off-balance.

I raise my knee, trapping her calf between my leg and my hip, and yank my arm forward, out of her grip. She catches herself on the mat at the same moment I shift my weight to roll us over. Where I land on top. I smirk above her, landing a punch to her cheek before I push to my feet.

And fall back to my knee.