Page 191 of Romancing in Rot

Then I turn toward Russ.

He is shoved into the ring.

He stumbles, catches himself, and glares at Clair before turning that glare on me. Clair has Poppy against her chest now, one arm wrapped around her, the other pressed to her own ribs. Blood runs from a cut near her hairline. Her mouth is swollen. There are handprints on her throat.

Russ points at her with a shaking hand. “I guess she couldn’t wait to find someone else to clean up her messes.”

My hands curl.

I’m going to enjoy this.

He swings first, wild and stupid, aiming for my face like anger can make up for fear. I step inside the punch and drive my fist into his ribs. He grunts, and I hit him again, lower and harder. Air punches out of him in a wet cough, and he staggers back, one hand flying to his side.

I grab the front of his shirt, yank him toward me, and slam my forehead into his mouth. His teeth cut my skin. His lip splits. Blood sprays across my chin.

The crowd cheers.

Russ lunges, trying to tackle me. I pivot and shove him past me. He slips in blood and crashes to one knee. Before he can get up, I kick him in the stomach hard enough to roll him onto his back. He skids through a wet smear, one hand splashing down in blood left by someone else’s death.

Russ scrambles backward on his hands, boots skidding.

I stalk after him.

He grabs a broken piece of tile and slashes at me.

Pain opens across my forearm, hot and sharp. Blood runs to my wrist and drips from my fingers.

Russ’s face lights with desperate satisfaction.

Mistake.

I grab his wrist before he can cut again and twist until the tile drops from his fingers. Tendons shift under my grip. His bones grind. I wrench his arm behind him and drive him face-first into the dry fountain’s cracked stone rim.

His nose breaks with a wet crunch.

Blood bursts over the faded blue tile.

He howls, and I use the sound to pull him back and slam my knee into his stomach. Once. Twice. The third time, he folds around it, gagging, spit and blood dangling from his mouth in ropes.

Not enough.

Not even fucking close.

I catch him by the back of his shirt and throw him into the side of the fountain. His shoulder hits stone with a crack. He cries out and slides down, leaving a red smear behind.

Russ spits blood onto the tile. “She always did like broken things.”

I go still.

He scans my scarred throat.

“Broken boy with dead parents,” Russ huffs, pushing himself up on one elbow. His voice is thick from the blood in his mouth. “I bet she couldn’t wait to crawl into bed with the next man stupid enough to take care of her.”

He pauses, smiling through red teeth.

“And that kid.”

Something rips loose inside me. Not loud. Not messy.