20. The Fight

Zara's POV

By nine that evening, I've decided that whoever sent me those messages can go straight to hell.

I'm going back to the warehouse.

Maybe it's reckless. Maybe it's exactly what the bastard behind the photograph wants me to do. But I'm not surrendering the only part of my life that belongs entirely to me because some coward has decided to play games with my head.

Besides, if someone has been watching me, the warehouse is the best place to discover whether they're watching me again.

I pull my black hoodie over my head, tuck my hair beneath the hood, and check the small blade secured inside my boot. I won't need it in the ring, but I've never been foolish enough to walk into an uncertain situation without a backup plan.

My phone buzzes on the bed.

A message from Damon.

Damon: Where are you?

I stare at the screen.

How the hell does he always manage to appear at the exact moment I want nothing to do with him?

Me: Somewhere peaceful.

His reply comes almost immediately.

Damon: That rules out wherever you are.

I roll my eyes.

Me: Go bother someone else, Beast.

Damon: Gladly. Come home first.

I freeze.

Then I type with more force than necessary.

Me: I am home.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Appear again.

Damon: You really are a terrible liar, Little Dove.

I shove the phone into my pocket before he can send anything else.

If Damon has developed a hobby of tracking my movements, he can enjoy doing it without my cooperation. I have a fight to win, and I refuse to let an arrogant biker ruin my evening from several kilometres away.

Twenty minutes later, I step into the warehouse.

The familiar combination of sweat, cheap liquor, cigarette smoke, and anticipation hits me immediately. The crowd is louder than usual, bodies packed around the makeshift ring while money changes hands between spectators. A few familiar faces greet me, and someone near the bar whistles when they recognize my black fighting gear.

"Black Widow!" a man shouts.

I lift two fingers without slowing down.

The nickname spreads through the crowd, followed by cheers.

Good.

Let them cheer.

I need the noise tonight. I need the movement, the adrenaline, and the simple honesty of a fight where nobody pretends to be something they're not.

A broad-shouldered man named Marco steps out from behind the makeshift registration table. He's one of the organizers, a man who knows better than to ask questions about my personal life.

"You're early," he says.

"Try not to sound so disappointed."

He laughs, but the sound fades when he glances at the clipboard in his hand.

"You're up next."

"Already?"

"Your opponent requested an earlier slot."

I stop unzipping my hoodie.

"Who?"

"Raven. New girl. She's been asking for you all week."

That gets my attention.

I've heard of Raven, although we've never fought. She's apparently good, fast, and mean enough to have earned a reputation in two different underground circuits. None of that concerns me. I don't mind a difficult opponent.

What I do mind is someone arranging a fight specifically because they want something from me.

"Who put the money down?" I ask.

Marco shrugs. "Private backer. Big purse for both of you."

"Name?"

"Anonymous."

I look at him.

He gives me an apologetic smile. "Don't shoot the messenger, Widow."

"That depends on whether the messenger keeps being annoying."

He holds up both hands and backs away.

I should leave.

The thought comes and goes in a heartbeat.

Someone sends me a photograph. Someone threatens me. Now an opponent I've never fought requests a special slot against me, backed by anonymous money.

It's too convenient.

It's practically a bloody invitation.

And I'm not walking away from an invitation without looking the bastard in the eye.

"Fine," I tell Marco. "Let's get this over with."

He looks relieved. "That's the spirit."

"No, the spirit is that I'm going to break someone's nose if this turns out to be a waste of my time."

"That's the Black Widow I know."

I remove my hoodie and hand it to him.

Then I step toward the ring.

The crowd roars when I climb through the ropes. I raise my chin, letting the familiar confidence settle over me, and look across at my opponent.

Raven is taller than I expected, with muscular arms, a shaved side to her dark hair, and a grin that makes me immediately dislike her.

She rolls her shoulders and watches me with unsettling concentration.

"Been waiting for this," she says.

"That's unfortunate. You could've spent the time learning how to smile without looking constipated."

A few spectators laugh.

Raven doesn't.

"Enjoy the jokes while you can."

"Oh, sweetheart, I plan to enjoy myself for the entire fight."

The bell rings.

She comes at me hard.

I block her first punch, pivot, and strike her ribs before she can recover. She absorbs the blow with a grunt, grabs my shoulder, and tries to drive me backward.

I twist out of her grip and slam my elbow into her upper arm.

She stumbles.

I don't give her time to regain her balance.

A quick combination to the body forces her against the ropes, and the crowd erupts as I step back, inviting her to come at me again.

She does.

Too quickly.

Raven launches herself at me with a ferocity that feels less like competition and more like personal hatred. Her fist catches my cheek, snapping my head sideways. Pain flashes across my face, sharp enough to make my eyes water.

I taste blood.

The crowd goes wild.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and smile at her.

"That all you've got?"

She swings again.

I duck, but instead of following through with a clean counter, she grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head backward.

Fucking bitch.

I drive my heel down onto her foot, wrench free, and slam a punch into her stomach. She folds slightly, but when I step away, she lunges again, catching my wrist and twisting it at an ugly angle.

Pain shoots through my arm.

I grit my teeth and slam my forehead into her nose.

The crack is satisfying.

Raven swears and releases me.

I take advantage of the opening, sweeping her leg and sending her crashing onto the mat. Before she can rise, I pin her shoulder with my knee and bring my fist down beside her head.

"Stay down," I growl.

She bucks violently, catching me across the ribs with an elbow. I roll away, struggling to draw a full breath as pain blooms along my side.

She gets to her feet first.

Then she smiles.

It's not the smile of a woman enjoying a fight.

It's the smile of someone who thinks she's already won.

"Your husband know where you are tonight, princess?"

The words hit harder than her fist.

My eyes narrow.

"What the fuck did you just say?"

She circles me, breathing hard.

"Does Damon Veyron know his little wife spends her nights getting paid to bleed?"

My blood turns cold.

For one dangerous second, the warehouse disappears. All I can hear is the pounding of my heart and the echo of my own thoughts.

How does she know about Damon?

More importantly, how does she know I'm married to him?

Nobody in this room should know enough about my private life to connect Zara Devereaux to the Black Widow.

Raven sees my hesitation and attacks.

Her fist catches my jaw. I stumble sideways, and she drives a knee into my stomach before shoving me against the ropes.

The air leaves my lungs.

She leans close enough that only I can hear her.

"Someone wants you taught a lesson."

I stare at her.

Then I laugh.

It's not a pleasant sound.

"Then someone should've sent a better fucking teacher."

I slam my elbow into her ribs and shove her away.

She swings wildly, but now I'm watching her shoulders, her hips, every little movement that gives away what she's about to do. She's stronger than me, but she's angry, and anger makes people careless.

She throws a right hook.

I duck beneath it, drive my fist into her stomach, and follow with a sharp strike to her jaw. Her head snaps back. Before she can recover, I hook my arm around her shoulder and use her momentum to throw her onto the mat.

She tries to scramble up.

I catch her wrist, twist her arm behind her back, and force her face toward the canvas.

"Who sent you?" I hiss.

She struggles.

"Fuck you."

"Wrong answer."

I tighten my hold just enough to make her gasp.

"Who the hell sent you?"

She bucks hard, managing to roll onto her side. Her free hand shoots toward my face, and her nails rake across my cheek.

I swear, release her wrist, and drive a punch into her ribs.

She curls around the blow.

I get to my feet and drag her upright by the shoulder of her fighting vest. The crowd is screaming now, money changing hands so quickly that people barely have time to count it.

Raven spits blood onto the mat.

"You're not as untouchable as everyone thinks."

"Never claimed to be."

She charges.

I step aside at the last moment, catch her arm, and drive my knee into her stomach. As she doubles over, I turn and slam my fist into her jaw.

She hits the mat hard.

The referee moves between us, counting as Raven struggles to rise. She makes it onto one knee, shakes her head, and attempts to stand.

Her legs give way.

The referee signals the end.

The warehouse erupts.

I lift my arms, but the victory feels hollow. My ribs ache, my jaw throbs, and blood runs from my split knuckles onto the mat.

I have won.

But Raven knew too much, and I intend to find out why.

I leave the ring without celebrating, retrieve my hoodie, and head toward the back corridor. Marco follows me, looking unusually uneasy.

"That was one hell of a fight," he says.

"Save the compliments. Who arranged it?"

"I told you. Anonymous backer."

"Then get me the name."

"I can't."

I turn on him.

"Can't or won't?"

His face tightens.

"Listen, Widow. I didn't know she'd bring your personal life into it. I swear to you, I thought this was just a fight."

"She knew my husband's name."

Marco looks genuinely startled.

"Your what?"

I freeze.

Shit.

He has never known my real identity, and I've just given him information I can't take back.

I step closer.

"Forget you heard that."

He raises his hands. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Good. Keep it that way."

I push through the rear exit into the cold night air.

The warehouse noise dulls behind me, but my anger keeps building. Someone paid Raven to hurt me. Someone gave her enough information to know about Damon, and someone thought I would be too distracted by the threats to fight back.

They've made a mistake.

I pull my phone from my pocket and open the photograph again, studying the motorcycle.

Then I hear an engine.

A black motorcycle rolls into the alley and stops several metres away.

My entire body goes rigid.

The rider removes his helmet.

Black hair. Grey eyes. A face that could make a saint reconsider her religion and a criminal reconsider his life choices.

Damon.

Of course.

I stare at him in disbelief as he swings off the motorcycle.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He removes his gloves slowly, his gaze moving over my face, my split lip, and the blood running down my knuckles.

"I could ask you the same question."

"You could. I'd still tell you to fuck off."

"Charming as always."

"How did you find me?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his eyes settle on the bruise already forming along my jaw.

Something dark moves across his face.

"Who hit you?"

I laugh sharply.

"You're standing outside an underground fighting warehouse, Beast. Take a wild fucking guess."

His gaze lifts to mine.

"You've been coming here regularly?"

I say nothing.

"Zara."

"Don't use that tone with me."

"What tone?"

"The one that says you're about to tell me how disappointed you are in your troublesome wife."

"I'm not disappointed."

"Wonderful. Then you can leave."

I turn toward the car park, but he catches my wrist.

Not hard enough to hurt me, but firmly enough to stop me.

I look down at his hand, then slowly raise my eyes to his face.

"Let go."

"Not until you tell me why you came here."

"Because I enjoy the atmosphere."

His eyes narrow.

"Try again."

"I wanted to fight."

"Why?"

"Because I fucking wanted to."

He releases my wrist, but he doesn't step aside.

"You've been receiving threats, and your solution was to walk straight into a place where someone could have been waiting for you?"

I fold my arms, immediately regretting the movement when my ribs protest.

"How I handle my problems is none of your business."

"Someone just tried to break your jaw."

"And I broke her nose first. I'd call that a fair exchange."

His expression doesn't change.

"That's not funny."

"Didn't realize you were my comedy critic."

"Zara, look at your hands."

I glance down.

My knuckles are swollen and bloody, the skin split in several places. I flex my fingers, wincing when pain shoots through them.

Damon notices.

His jaw tightens.

"Who was she?"

"Raven."

"Was she trying to hurt you?"

I hesitate.

He catches it immediately.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Don't bullshit me."

"Watch your mouth."

"Someone knew my name before I even knew you were here. Someone was prepared to hurt you, and you expect me to believe nothing happened?"

I stare at him.

For the first time tonight, I realize I may have made a terrible mistake.

Raven knew about Damon.

She knew enough to use his name to throw me off balance.

And now Damon is standing outside the warehouse, looking at my injuries, asking questions I cannot answer without exposing the one secret I've spent years protecting.

I step closer, keeping my voice low.

"You want to help me? Then stop asking questions you aren't ready to hear the answers to."

His expression hardens.

"Try me."

"No."

"Zara."

"No, Damon. You don't get to follow me somewhere, demand explanations, and expect me to hand you every piece of my life because you happen to be my husband."

"I'm not asking for every piece of your life."

"Could've fooled me."

"I'm asking why someone is targeting you."

"And I'm telling you I can handle it."

He looks at my bloody knuckles again.

"Is this what handling it looks like?"

I shove his chest with both hands.

He barely moves.

"Don't you dare stand there and judge me."

"I'm not judging you."

"Then stop looking at me like I'm some fucking disaster you need to clean up!"

His face changes.

For a second, I see something beneath the anger that I can't quite identify. It isn't pity, and it isn't disappointment.

It's fear.

Not the kind that makes a man run.

The kind that makes a dangerous man decide nothing else matters until he understands what threatens someone standing in front of him.

It unsettles me more than I want to admit.

He reaches toward my face, then pauses before touching the bruised skin.

"Did she hurt you anywhere else?"

I swallow.

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't what I asked."

"My ribs are sore. My hands hurt. My pride is suffering because you won't stop staring at me. Happy now?"

"No."

"Of course not."

He takes off his leather jacket and holds it out to me.

I stare at it.

"What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Put it on."

"I'm not cold."

"You're shaking."

"I'm angry."

"I can see that."

"Then you should know better than to tell me what to do."

His mouth twitches despite the tension.

"There she is."

I snatch the jacket from his hand and put it on purely because the night air has turned colder and my ribs are beginning to ache.

Not because he told me to.

Definitely not.

Damon watches me zip it halfway before reaching for my injured hand.

I pull it back.

"Don't."

"Let me see."

"No."

"Zara, your knuckles are bleeding."

"They tend to do that when you punch people."

"And you tend to be a pain in the ass when someone tries to help you."

"Then stop trying."

He exhales sharply and drags a hand through his hair.

"You're going to drive me fucking insane."

"Get in line."

For a moment, we stand there glaring at each other beneath the security light.

Then his attention shifts past me, toward the warehouse door.

"Who else knows you're here?"

I don't answer.

His gaze returns to mine.

"Who knows you fight?"

My stomach drops.

He doesn't know.

Not yet.

But he's getting closer, and I can feel it.

"Lots of people," I say carelessly. "It's not exactly a private establishment."

"That's not what I asked."

"Then ask a better question."

He studies me, and I can almost see the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The injuries. The secrecy. The way I've refused to tell him where I go or what I do when I disappear.

Then his eyes drop to my hands once more.

His expression changes.

The teasing vanishes. The anger settles into something colder, sharper, as if a possibility has finally occurred to him that he never seriously considered before.

He looks at my swollen knuckles, then at the warehouse entrance.

When he speaks, his voice is so quiet that it sends a chill down my spine.

"You're Black Widow."

I stop breathing.

For the first time in years, I have absolutely nothing to say.