Page 52 of Prey

Kathy.

Jenna Reeves died the night she walked out of that warehouse. What’s left is someone harder, someone who doesn’t flinch when fists come flying.

I catch the towel, wiping sweat from my face. “Thanks. When’s the next card?”

“Tomorrow night. You ready for that?”

Am I? I’ve been training for a week, getting my body back to where it was three years ago when underground fighting paid my rent and kept me invisible for eight months. My muscles remember the movements—duck, weave, strike—but there’s something else driving me now.

“I’m ready.”

“Good. You’re fighting Maya Chen. Flyweight, but don’t let that fool you. Girl’s got hands like hammers.”

I nod, already running through what I know about her. Fast, technical, likes to work the body before going for the head. I watched her last fight from the stands, studying for weaknesses exactly how I searched for Nikolai’s.

Stop.

I slam that thought down before it can take root. I’m not thinking about him. About the way his hands felt on my skin or the sound he made when I said his name. I’m not thinking about his eyes or the tremor in his voice when he called me beautiful.

I’m especially not thinking about how I wake up every morning with my hand between my legs and his name on my lips.

“Kathy?”

Rico’s voice snaps me back to the present. He’s watching me with concern, probably wondering why I went quiet for so long.

“Sorry. Just thinking about strategy.”

“Good. Keep that focus.” He leans against the bar, arms crossed. “You got somewhere to crash tonight? Because if you’re sleeping rough?—”

“I’m good.” I’ve got a room three blocks from here, paid for with money I earned cleaning dishes at a restaurant that doesn’t ask for ID. It’s not much—a bed, a sink, a window that doesn’t close properly—but it’s mine.

More importantly, it’s not a concrete cell.

The gym empties out as the evening crowd heads home to lives I can’t imagine having. Normal lives, with people who care if they come back. I take my time packing my gear, letting the space settle into quiet around me.

“You sure you’re okay?” Rico’s still watching me.

“Just tired.” Another lie. I’m not tired—I’m wired, energy crackling under my skin like an electric storm. The sparring helped, but it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough anymore.

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe me. “Lock up when you leave, yeah?”

I nod, and he heads out through the back exit. The lock clicks behind him, leaving me alone with the heavy bags.

I should go back to my room. Shower off the sweat and try to sleep. But instead, I find myself back at the heavy bag, bare knuckles connecting with leather in a rhythm that matches my heartbeat.

Jab, cross, hook.The combination flows like water, muscle memory taking over.Duck, uppercut, step back.

Each impact sends a vibration up my arms and loosens the tightness in my chest. This is what I need—not the careful distance I maintained for three years, not the invisible life of overnight shifts. I need to hit something. Need to feel my body move with purpose.

I need to remember who I was before he took me. Hell, I need to remember who I was before my stepfather ruined me.

The bag swings with each strike, chains creaking overhead. I imagine it’s his face—those perfect features twisted with surprise when he woke up and found me gone. Is he looking for me?

Of course he’s looking.

The thought sends heat racing through my veins. He’d promised to tie me to his bed, to keep me there until I forgot my own name and was pregnant with his baby. The memoryof his voice, rough with possession, makes my core clench involuntarily.

Fuck.