There could be no mistaking the jealous tone of Emily’s voice.
“I thought you’d set your cap at Sam.” She turned her head to look at her friend. “Has that changed?”
Crimson splotches bloomed on pale cheeks. “No. Although, I’m not sure what it says about me that, even though I prefer Sam’s attentions to Jasper’s, I still do not like Jasper turning that attention elsewhere.”
Finley chuckled at her honesty. “I don’t know a girl who would.” She paused. “You saw that Sam is here?” She hadn’t been surprised to see the big lad at the fight, but she had been surprised to see he was a contender. She should have known Griffin would come up with a similar plan, blast it all.
“Yes,” Emily replied, expression grim. “Don’t you hurt him.”
The warning in her friend’s tone startled her, but she heeded it all the same. Emily’s bad side was not a place she wanted to be. “I won’t.”
“Up next,” boomed the announcer’s voice, “Harpy O’Malley versus Finley Bennet.”
Her stomach felt as though it had dropped between her ankles. She’d given them an alias she had used before, in case anyone started asking questions—no way to link her name to Griffin’s. “I’m nervous,” she admitted.
“Harpy’s not intimidating,” Emily informed her, giving her a gentle shove. “Bird woman. You can defeat a bird woman. Off with ye now, before we attract even more attention. And be careful.”
There was no turning back. One look at Jasper, and Finley knew she couldn’t walk away. Besides, she wasn’t a coward. She simply wasn’t used to walking into a fight without aggression already driving her. She wasn’t going up against an enemy, just another person.
Another person willing to kill her to win. That realization drove the importance of the evening home. Calm settled over her. Calm determination. She had not come here to lose.
She stepped out of the shadows and walked the short distance to the raised platform where the ring sat. Slipping between the ropes, she forced herself to think of one thing and one thing only: survival.
“Harpy” turned out to be a strapping woman of Irish descent. She had long ginger hair, which she wore in thick braids on either side of her head, and arms the size of Finley’s legs. Some might have called her heavy or sturdy but there wasn’t an inch that wasn’t muscle. She wouldn’t go down easy, but when she did, she’d stay there.
Finley smiled and flexed her wrapped hands. She almost regretted the fact that she wouldn’t be able to cut her knuckles on Harpy’s teeth. Oh, yes. Her fighting side had shown up in full force. The runes Griff had tattooed on her back tingled so slightly it might have been her imagination.
The Irishwoman came at her fast and furious, swinging her meat-hook-like hands with such force they created a breeze. Finley avoided one swipe but took another on the chin. It felt as though her teeth had been driven up into her brain, it hurt so bad. But as she’d learned in the past, pain was often a trigger for her particular “talents,” and this was no different. She managed to avoid another couple of swings by dodging out of the way. Once her head cleared, she could concentrate on the anger that being hit brought out in her—and the single-minded determination to not feel that pain again.
Harpy was already panting, having exhausted herself with all that constant exertion. Her movements had slowed, and that was all the enticement Finley needed. She whirled around in a move Jasper had shown her, pivoted her body down toward her left leg and brought her right up, connecting with her opponent’s head with a solid kick. She was right—Harpy went down hard.
As the woman’s unconscious body was lugged out of the ring, Finley caught Dalton’s appreciative gaze. She’d grabbed his interest; now to see if she could keep it. She waggled her fingers at him in a way she hoped made her appear flirtatious, rather than deranged, and was rewarded with a lopsided grin.
“Get out of the ring” came a stern male voice from behind her. “We got another fight comin’.”
Finley did as she was told. Her victory guaranteed that she’d be back in the ring later, so she could continue to work on Dalton then.
As she approached the shadows where Emily stood waiting for her, grinning like an idiot, Finley glanced out into the audience. Her gaze locked with another—one the color of a stormy sky and every bit as volatile.
It was Griffin. And he wasn’t nearly as impressed with her as Emily was.
* * *
Finley’s last fight was against Sam.
It was ironic that her former nemesis be her final fight. She wasn’t surprised that it had come down to the two of them. If she had to fight all comers till the end of the world, it would still end up just her and Sam, squared off.
“What are you doing here?” he growled as they stood face-to-face.
“Same thing you are—trying to fight my way into Dalton’s gang.”
“You’re mad.”
“And you’ve been seen with the Duke of Greythorne.” That drew him up straight. “Sam, Dalton’s already noticed me. He likes girls that fight. Stay with Griffin and Emily. Protect them. Let me have Dalton.”
“What are you waitin’ for?” A voice from the crowd shouted. “Fight!”
A roar rose up in the crowded room, reverberating off the walls, trembling through the floorboards.
Sam raised his fists. “Let’s do this.”
Finley adopted a fighting stance. “Are you going to take a fall?”
He nodded, jaw clenched. It would be a blow to his pride, she knew it. “But I’m going to make you work for it.”
And she did work for it. By the time Sam finally hit the floor, she had the bruised—at least she hoped they were only bruised—ribs, sore jaw, split lip and assorted other injuries to prove just how he’d made her work. She stood in the center of the ring, battered and bloody, exhausted and exhilarated, and reveled in the roar of the frenzied crowd.
She hadn’t seriously injured anyone, and she was proud of herself for that, because other fighters hadn’t been nearly so considerate. She’d taken pleasure in knocking out those who had such little regard for human life. In fact, she’d toyed with them like a cat with a mouse—taking her time in putting them down. Perhaps that didn’t say much for her character, but in the moment, she hadn’t cared.
She had achieved what she wanted: she had Dalton’s attention. He tipped his hat to her when her gaze settled on him, and she smiled in return before looking away. It wouldn’t be good to appear too eager.
With her one good eye—the other was swollen shut—she turned so that she could see Griffin. She didn’t make direct eye contact with him, because she knew Dalton was watching her, but she had to look.
Griffin stood now, as did all the other spectators, only they cheered for her—or booed her. The Duke of Greythorne just stood there, stoic and expressionless. Then he said something to Sam and turned away. Sam flashed her a quick, almost apologetic glance
