5-WILD ROSE

Kaelyn did not slow as he dragged her through the crowd. People parted without being asked. Bodies shifted instinctively out of his path, as though something in them understood the cost of getting in his way. Rose kept pace easily. Her eyes  moved, cataloging faces, spotting the way certain men stood too still and others slouched too casually. All of it filed away without effort as the noise of the underground ring pressed in around her.

The air carried heat and anticipation, saturated with sweat and money, with violence that had not yet happened but already lived in the bones of the place. Someone shouted odds from somewhere near the ring, voices rose and fell in sharp bursts, and beneath it all there was that current she knew too well, the restless hunger of a crowd waiting to see someone break.

Kaelyn pushed open a door at the edge of the room and pulled her inside without ceremony.

The dressing room beyond was empty.

It reeked of old fights and disinfectant that never quite masked what soaked into the walls over time. A single bench ran along one side, a cracked mirror hung crooked above it, and a bucket sat in the corner like a tacit promise of what this place was used for.

“Get changed,” he said, releasing her at last. “Someone will come for you when it’s time.”

Rose rolled her shoulders once, letting the space settle around her.

“Okay,” she said.

She barely had time to shift her weight before he moved again.

Fast.

He stepped into her space and caged her against the wall, one arm braced on either side of her, his body blocking the room, closing it down until all she could feel was him and the steady pressure of his presence.

He was too close, close enough that she could see the detail in his eyes, the dark depth of them, the way nothing in his expression changed, and yet everything in the air around him did.

“I’ll be watching you, Wild Rose,” he said quietly. “Do not disappoint me.”

Her pulse did something she did not appreciate.

He did not touch her, but it felt like he had, like something had already crossed a line her body recognized before her mind caught up. For a moment, neither of them moved, and the tension between them stretched tight, humming, something that could snap or burn or drag her under if she let it.

She became sharply aware of her own thoughts, of how quickly they turned, how easily they betrayed her.

She wondered what his mouth would feel like, or what his fangs would feel like in her skin.

The thoughts came uninvited and stayed.

Her breath slowed deliberately as she forced it back down, grounding herself in the here and now before it could spiral into something she could not afford.

He lingered, as though he saw more than he should, then he stepped back.

The space he left behind felt colder, and the door shut behind him without another word.

Rose stayed where she was, her back still against the wall, her body recalibrating, dragging itself back into control.

Then she moved away and got to work.

She stripped quickly, changing into her fight gear with practiced efficiency, binding what needed to be bound, tightening wraps around her hands, checking every movement twice out of habit rather than need. Her hair went up next, her wild curls pulled high and tight into a ponytail that would stay out of her face when things got fast.

She picked up the rope and began to skip.

The rhythm settled her.

Each turn of the rope, each light impact of her feet against the concrete, pulled her deeper into herself, into muscle memory and instinct.

Arthur would have loved this place.

The thought came easily, bringing with it the echo of grease-stained hands and quiet pride, of long hours in his workshop down by Spouts Bridge, where engines lay open, and she had learned to take them apart and put them back together again. He had taught her more than mechanics, had shown her how to move, how to fight, how to stand her ground when the world tried to push her somewhere she did not belong.

He had once worn the King’s crest on his shoulder, had trained among the elite guards before an injury dragged him back to a quieter life, and though he had never said it outright, she had always known he saw something in her that might have taken her down that same path.

That life had slipped away long before she could reach for it.

She had built something else instead.

The rope blurred as it spun, the rhythm steady, her breathing controlled, her mind sharpening as it always did before a fight. Energy moved around her without conscious thought, subtle, controlled, something she had learned to use without drawing attention, feeding into her strikes, her timing, her speed.

It was part of her.

It was also something she never let anyone see clearly.

The door opened.

She did not stop moving.

Bianca leaned against the frame, her expression already edged with disdain, her eyes sweeping over Rose like she was measuring something she had already decided did not meet her standards.

“It’s time,” Bianca said.

Rose let the rope fall still and set it aside, rolling her neck once as she stepped forward.

She moved to pass her.

Bianca’s hand shot out and caught her arm.

The contact was light, but deliberate.

“I just want you to understand something,” Bianca said, her voice low, laced with something sharp and personal. “You are nothing more than a distraction to him. A new toy. He will get bored, and when he does, you will be discarded.”

Rose looked down at the hand on her arm, then back up at her.

There was no rush in her movement as she removed it.

“Do not touch me again,” she said evenly.

She did not wait for a response.

She walked.

The noise hit her as soon as she stepped back into the main room, louder now, sharper, the crowd pressing closer to the ring as the next fight approached. Lights hung low over the circle, casting everything in harsh brightness that left no place to hide.

She stepped forward, and the space shifted again.

This was different.

Recognition flickered in a few faces, slow at first, then catching, spreading in quiet ripples as people leaned in, whispering, trying to place her.

“…that her?”

“…no way…”

“…Wild Rose…”

The name moved through the crowd like something waking up.

She ignored it.

Her focus moved to the ring, to the woman already inside it.

Mean Betty.

The nickname fit.

She was built thick and solid, muscle-packed tight, her stance aggressive, her eyes already locked onto Rose with the kind of confidence that came from not losing.

Rose had seen her type before.

Power over precision, violence over control.

She stepped into the ring.

The bell had not yet rung, but the tension flared into place, the crowd leaning in, money shifting hands, voices swelling as bets were placed with increasing urgency.

“She must be part of Blackhand,” someone muttered nearby, not quietly enough. “Look who brought her in.”

Rose did not react.

She rolled her shoulders once.

The bell rang.

Mean Betty came at her immediately.

No testing or hesitation, just a full charge, a left hook thrown hard enough to take a head off if it landed clean.

Rose slipped it easily.

Betty was slow.

She let the other woman push forward, let her throw, let her burn through that initial surge while she moved, light on her feet, turning, circling, letting the crowd build, letting them think they knew how this would go.

Betty swung again.

Missed again.

Frustration flickered.

Rose stepped in.

Her first strikes were light, controlled, quick jabs to the body that landed with more force than they should have, each one placed precisely, each one taking something small that would add up quickly.

They looked light, but Betty would feel them over time. A minute in the ring stretched when every second cost something.

Betty dropped suddenly, sweeping for her legs.

Rose anticipated it, let herself go with the motion just enough to sell it before shifting her weight, catching the movement, turning it, locking her arm around Betty’s neck as they hit the ground.

She drove a series of punches into her ribs.

The last one carried just a touch more energy manipulation.

Betty’s breath stuttered, coming ragged now.

“I’m going to kill you bitch,” Betty snarled through her mouthguard.

Rose tightened her hold slightly.

“Not if I get there first,” she said.

For a fraction of a second, her attention shifted.

His attention stayed on her, heavy enough to feel.

She did not need to look to know where he was, but she did anyway.

Kaelyn stood just beyond the ring, his sight fixed on her, his demeanor unreadable, something darker sitting just beneath it.

Betty moved.

A hammer of a punch came from nowhere, catching her high.

Rose threw up a barrier a fraction too late.

The impact still landed.

Her head snapped, her body hitting the mat as the crowd exploded, voices soaring into a chant.

“Betty. Betty. Betty.”

The sound pressed in.

Rose closed her eyes for a beat.

Enough.

She pushed up.

Something in her shifted.

When she moved this time, it was different.

Her footwork shifted inside Betty’s guard before she could reset, her strikes landing in a rapid sequence that left no room for retaliation, each one precise, each one carrying weight that built with every hit.

Betty staggered.

Tried to swing.

Missed.

Rose finished it.

A final strike landed, clean and decisive, and Betty went down hard, her body refusing to answer when she tried to rise.

Silence hit for a fraction of a second.

Then the crowd detonated.

“Wild Rose. Wild Rose. Wild Rose.”

The name roared back to life.

Rose stood over her, her breathing steady, her pulse alive with the familiar rush that came after a win, something fierce and bright that she had not felt in a long time.

Her gaze moved without thinking.

Found him.

Kaelyn was already moving.

He stepped into the ring, closing the distance with that same quiet authority, reaching for her hand and lifting it high as the crowd surged louder in response.

Approval rolled through the room like thunder.

She felt the adrenaline roll through her body.

His hand remained around hers, his grip firm, grounding, claiming without saying the word.

For a moment, everything narrowed as she felt his skin touch hers.

Another vision, partial, then she forced it to break.

Betty moved towards her boot, hand slipping in.

Rose did not see it coming.

A flash of metal cut through the air, thrown hard and fast, aimed straight for her heart.

Time snapped tight as she watched it all happen in slow motion.