Playboy Princes (Royals of Arbon Academy, #2)(47)

Fuck, I hoped they had; I was basically drooling at the idea of drawing that prick’s blood.

The fight started, and I had a worrying thought. “What happens if he loses this round?” I asked Jordan, shooting him a quick look before returning my attention to the ring. Brandon had just taken a hard hit to the jaw, which made me equal parts satisfied to see him beaten and concerned this would cheat me of my own chance.

Jordan paused before responding, long enough that I knew what he was going to say. “If he loses, you won’t fight him next round. Losers don’t fight again in the same event; it’s just bad business.” He sighed, his sharp gaze traveling across the excited, cheering crowd in the underground arena. “And there’s a whole lot of money changing hands on these fights.”

Huh. That hadn’t even occurred to me. Back home, people only placed bets on the main-event fighters, and even then it wasn’t major money. No one had enough to spare.

“Did people bet on my fight?” I asked, curious. Brandon’s opponent slashed at him with a set of Bagh Nakh—also known as Tiger Claws—and my nemesis narrowly escaped being gutted.

Jordan’s fingertips skated down my spine, and I shivered. “Of course they did, gorgeous,” he replied with a small laugh. “Even with the display you put on at the last fight, I still tripled my money tonight.”

My jaw dropped, and I tore my attention from Brandon’s fight long enough to gape at Jordan. “You bet on me?”

His lips curved up in a smug smile. “Vi, I’ll always bet on you.”

He held my gaze for a long moment, broken only when the crowd erupted and someone bumped into us.

“Cut it out, you two,” Rafe snarled. “Practice a little bit of tact while we’re all supposed to be incognito.”

I rolled my eyes, but he melted back into the crowd before I could snap back at him. Much as I hated it, he was right. I shot Jordan a regretful look, then created a bit of distance between us.

“And the winner is…” the commentator started, and my breath caught in my throat. I’d stopped watching Brandon’s fight, and now my view was obscured by a group of huge-ass men. Fuck, fuck. Who had won?

“...The Dean. Who the fuck saw that coming?” This last part was muttered, but I’d shifted close enough to hear him, and I snickered a laugh.

“Did you see that?” Nolan asked, sidling up to me. I shook my head, and he grimaced. “Dickhead won by dirty tactics. Someone ‘accidentally’ threw a glass bottle into the ring. Bengal tripped on it, and Brandon used the advantage to checkmate him.”

Whoa. Brandon cheated? Why was that not surprising at all?

“Watch out for stray trip hazards then?” I replied with a sigh. “Got it.”

Nolan jerked a nod. “Five minutes until next round. You ready?” I nodded. “You need anything?” I shook my head. “Alright, stay limber and for the love of all that’s holy, make that bastard bleed.” He paused, giving me a feral kind of smirk. “Otherwise we’ll have to intervene on your behalf.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growled, jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow. “Revenge is mine. You start thinking about how we can get Claudette in the ring for next fight night.”

Nolan laughed. “Yeah, sure. Claudette risking a broken nail. Let me get to work on finding a unicorn to shit out rainbow ice cream while I’m at it.”

He snickered at his own joke as he merged back into the crowd and left me alone once more. They were seriously good at doing that, which made me wonder how long they’d been attending these clandestine fights. Also made me wonder just how deeply they were involved, given how easily Rafe had managed to get me on the bill.

“Okay folks, are we all ready for round three?” The main commentator bellowed his words into a microphone like he was some kind of performer. Hell, maybe he was. With everyone disguised to varying extents, the commentator could well be a celebrity or a royal himself.

Excitement warmed my belly, and I rolled my shoulders in preparation. A small part of me worried that maybe the guys hadn’t made it work, maybe I’d end up fighting some other arrogant dick with sloppy footwork and heavy fists.

But then… “Violence versus The Dean!”

Fuck yeah.

Wait, which ring?





Chapter 20





As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. Enough people either stepped out of my way or nudged me in the right direction. In fairness, my violet-colored Violence costume really did make me stand out a bit.

“You can’t be serious,” Brandon—ahem, sorry, The Dean—sneered when I stepped into the ring with him. “I’m not fighting a girl. What kind of joke is this?” He looked around, condescending laughter radiating from his whole form. Fucking hell, even with the mask and black outfit, even without the stupid, obvious persona, it would’ve been dead clear that this was Brandon Morgan. He just oozed a special sort of assholery.

“Are you questioning this ancient organization?” the announcer asked, sounding legitimately surprised. “You know the rules. No one requests or denies an opponent. You fight or you forfeit, and if you forfeit, your name is blacklisted and you never fight again.”

No one could see his face, but Brandon’s eyes narrowed at that. It was abundantly clear he didn’t like having that sort of ultimatum thrown in his face.