Page 32 of Rebel
Divine steps through the ropes, gloves already on, her braid tight down her back. Her shoulders are squared, but her eyes never leave mine.
“Three rounds,” French calls. “No face shots unless you mean it.”
“I mean it,” Divine says.
“Same,” I reply.
The crowd stirs. Sloane’s arms are crossed, eyes cold and unreadable. Calypso smirks from the ropes. Allura stands still as marble. She doesn’t shout. One look and the circle tightens, respectful and hungry for the truth. The club’s heartbeats sync to the drum of my pulse.
The first punch cracks like lightning. Divine’s fast precision in motion. I block, swing back, my knuckles biting flesh. The hit lands clean, and she grins through it.
“You always think you’re the only one carrying the weight,” she spits between strikes.
“Someone has to.”
“Bullshit.” She feints left, hooks right, and catches my ribs. “You don’t trust us enough to share it.”
Pain flares sharp, but it burns the fear out of me. I counter with a jab that knocks her off balance. “I trust you to judge me.”
“Then stop hiding.”
We move in rhythm, sweat and fury, fists translating what words can’t. French yells encouragement from the corner. Calypso shouts, “Hit her again!” and laughter ripples through the crowd.
The last punch lands harder than intended, a blur of knuckles, sweat, and breath. The world narrows to light and heartbeat. I hit the sand, lungs burning. Divine stands above me, panting, blood trailing from her lip.
She drops the gloves and reaches down. “Now tell us everything.” Divine’s voice wavers slightly, not enough for anyone but me to hear. Her eyes aren’t angry anymore.They’re hurt. And beneath all that, I see the compassion my best friend still feels for me.
I take her hand. Her grip tightens for half a second longer than needed before she pulls me up. That’s our apology.
The others drift back to their corners of the compound, and I sit outside the ring with an ice pack pressed to my ribs. The night hums low and alive, the smell of blood and leather still sharp in the air.
Carter appears out of the dark, tossing me a towel. “You fight like you mean it.”
“Family rule,” I murmur. “We don’t pull punches.”
“Remind me not to piss you off.”
“Too late for that.”
He laughs softly, crouching beside me. He’s carrying the medic kit I used the other night when we both were grazed with bullets. He kneels in front of me with the ease of a man who’s done worse things and called them maintenance.
“You look like you lost an argument with a freight truck,” he says, half-trying for humor. His fingers are steady as he peels back the edge of my shirt where the sand bit into my ribs. The skin around the bruise is already puckered. When he cleans the wound, the antiseptic stings like cold acid.
“Feels like it,” I answer, because honesty is cheap when there’s more at stake than pride.
He presses a cool pad to the cut. “You did what you had to. You saved them.” His thumb rubs a slow circle across my forearm. His hand lingers just amoment longer before he pulls away. He notices, and so do I.
It’s a small gesture, but everything shifts an inch for me. I let the moment pass, because there is no time to live in it.
Carter’s hand brushes mine when I take the ice pack, adjusting it against my ribs. It burns through me, quiet and undeniable. “Next time,” he says, “you call for backup.”
“Next time,” I answer, “I won’t need it.”
He offers me a small, tired smile, and for the first time since this started, I think maybe the ledger isn’t the only thing I can balance. Because the Harlots bleed together, and Carter Bishop bleeds, too. But somewhere beyond the compound walls, the Vultures are already circling again. Waiting for the next fight.
“Well,” I say, standing up. “Time to get this show on the road.”
Carter stands with me and presses his hand to the small of my back in support. The heat from his body sends a shiver down my spine. He leans close enough, his lips barely touch the shell of my ear. “I’ve got you, Wildcat.”
