Playboy Princes (Royals of Arbon Academy, #2)(46)

I didn’t startle at my name. Rafe had whispered to me before I’d stepped into this area that I would be fighting at least twice tonight so I needed to pace myself.

It was almost nice, a warning of sorts, but I didn’t need it.

Two fights was nothing.

I moved toward the ring that had the three marked on the middle of the bouncy floor and launched myself up and over the fence that separated the fighters from the audience. It felt like there were a lot of people crowding close to this area, and I forced myself not to run my hands over my braid to check if it was still in place, a nervous gesture I’d spent years retraining myself to not do. My hair was a sore point for me, though, with my sensei harping daily about how I was giving someone ammunition to use against me. He’d suggested I shave it close to my head for a true monk-like existence.

I’d declined, vain bitch that I was.

Justice chose that moment to dive over the side barrier, perfectly rolling across the floor to come up right in my face. The fighter was a good six inches taller than me but seemed slender, like he had long-distance running muscles.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t strong, and he’d likely hold more endurance than most of the bulkier fighters. I wouldn’t underestimate him.

No one that fought here was going to be an easy opponent.

Our fight commentator was making the usual intro bit, but I wasn’t listening. I’d zoned him out completely because nothing he could say would help me win. Nope, I was laser-focused on my opponent. Justice.

He held himself well, loose and ready, showing his training. I took all the time I could, slowly drawing my blade while scanning him for weaknesses.

“Tanto, right?” Justice commented, nodding to my blade. I was actually kind of surprised he knew what that was. He was wrong; my baby was actually a wakizashi with a twelve inch blade, but he was close. “You know how to use that, little girl?”

Oh, that was a shame. Just when I’d gained the slightest bit of respect for my opponent, he went and ruined it with some misogynistic bullshit.

“Guess you’re about to find out,” I murmured, giving a small shrug. I didn’t move around like lots of fighters did to warm up or cover nervous jitters. I found that the less I moved around, the more it unnerved people. Going against the norm always seemed to have that effect… even outside the fight rings.

Justice smirked as he reached out to one of his friends and took a slightly longer blade from him. It was nothing special. Just a knife. A long, sharp knife, but that was it. Based on the dull gleam off of it, it didn’t even look to be high quality.

From the corner of my eye, I caught Rafe’s distinctive frame hovering near the edge of my fight ring. Two steps to his left… yep, there was Jordan. I’d know those eyes freaking anywhere.

Justice lunged at me, swiping with his big-ass knife. My reaction time was quick, but I was still only human. He’d caught me off-guard and nicked the flesh of my upper arm, drawing blood.

“Motherfucker,” I cursed, spinning out of the way and mentally berating myself. Stupid-ass hormones had just nearly gotten me killed. Maybe it was a bad idea to fight with those two watching me.

“Pay attention, sweetheart,” Justice mocked, twirling his weapon around in a showy, arrogant move. “This is supposed to be a warm-up for my next fight. So don’t make it too easy, yeah?”

Anger burned through my veins, but I wasn’t stupid enough to let that emotion rule me. Our fight had begun, and in this place there was no room for any emotions. At all. Internally I was a cool, calm void.

A deep breath filled my lungs, and as I exhaled, I moved.

Spin, cut, step, dodge, strike, breathe. Repeat.

The movements came like second nature to me, and before I’d even broken a real sweat, Justice was flat on his back with my boot on his chest and my blade pressed to his throat.

“Yield,” he squeaked, displaying his hands in a clear sign of surrender.

Frowning, I blinked a few times to bring my awareness back to the present. Justice’s crappy knife was several feet away, and blood dripped down his face from a vicious gash in his forehead. My elbow ached a little, and I found a vague recollection of striking him with it in lieu of slitting his throat.

I didn’t move. Not for a second. Not until the fight commentator got in my face and declared me the winner.

As I sheathed my wakizashi and exited the ring, I rolled my shoulders, muscles moving easily. Justice was right; that had been a good warm-up.

Now I was ready to kill a girl-bashing bully.





The next round of fights was announced just minutes later, and my name wasn’t called. But that was actually a blessing because when the commentator announced the names for ring two, I grinned.

“Subtlety isn’t his forte,” Jordan murmured in my ear, having appeared from the depths of the crowd with some impressive stealth.

I snorted a laugh. “No. I never would have guessed that Brandon Morgan—son of Dean Morgan—would call himself The Dean. Arrogant fuck.”

“Arrogant, rash, sloppy… you’ll see.” He rested his hand on the small of my back, and I resisted the urge to lean into him.

He steered me closer to the ring I’d recently vacated, and we positioned ourselves in the shadows to watch the fight. It was like a preview of what I was about to face… if my guys had managed to come through and match us up.