Page 117 of Eat. Prey. Love.

This is my ring, my fight—and no oversized pup is going to change that.

The second the ref’s whistle pierces the air, Zoya and I are a blur of motion, colliding in the center of the ring with the force of a thunderclap. It’s a whirlwind of fur and fury, her massive canine form against my lean, muscular rabbit build—two natural enemies locked in an unnatural dance ofviolence.

A symphony of praise for bloodlust and adrenaline comes from the roaring crowd. I can feel their energy pulsing through me, fueling my every move. Zoya is relentless, her massive paws swiping at me with deadly precision. But I’m too quick, too agile because of my rabbit. I dart and weave, shifting between forms to keep her off balance. When I see an opening, I pounce, knocking her to the ground. She’s strong, though, flipping us over so that she’s on top again. Our limbs tangle together in a chaotic symphony of fur and limbs as we fight for dominance.

My heart pounds in my chest as we roll and struggle against each other. This is the part of the Games I live for—this raw, primal battle of life and death. Suddenly, Zoya lets out a deafening howl and pushes herself up, breaking our hold. She stands tall before me, panting heavily but still radiating strength.

“Is that all you’ve got?” she snarls, her eyes blazing with challenge.

I grin back at her wolfishly. “I’m just getting started, furface.”

With renewed determination coursing through me, we charge at each other once more. The ring shakes beneath our feet as we collide again and again, neither of us giving an inch. Just when it seems like we’re evenly matched, something shifts within me. A surge of power flows through my veins as I tap into the ancient instincts of my shifter ancestors. Faster than lightning, I shift into my full rabbit form—a giant hare with razor-sharp claws and teeth that could tear through steel. Zoya takes a step back in surprise before lunging forward once more.

This time, my attack is different—I am different. My senses are heightened to a new level as I anticipate her moves before they even happen.Then suddenly, everything falls into place: the perfect angle, the perfect moment. I leap at her, sinking my claws into her side until she screams in agony.

“I guess I’m the thorn in your side after all,” I say with a wicked grin and the lumbering dog just grunts back at me. I land a solidbite to her flank, tasting copper, before she throws me off with a swipe that stings my cheek.

Man, she fuckingtasteslike vodka—what a stereotype.

We’re up again, circling, feinting. She lunges, I parry. Claws meet flesh, drawing thin red lines that quickly stain our fur. Each exchange is faster, more desperate than the last. I can see it in her eyes—she’s not holding back. Zoya’s moves become less about technique, more about raw power. It’s here, amidst this maelstrom of fury, that I realize brute strength won’t be enough. The magic within whispers, urging me to tap into its chaotic depths.

I hiss under my breath, coaxing the blue lightning. But instead of the calming blue arcs I’m getting used to, I feel something else—a roiling, seething tide of red energy, dark and wild. It scares me, yet I know it’s mine to command. “Help me,” I mutter, more plea than command, trying to mold the power that rises like a tempest inside me.

Zoya’s claw rakes across my face, a hot line of pain that snaps my focus back to the fight. Blood trickles into my eye, blurring my vision with a scarlet veil. I stagger back, my hand going to my cheek. The taste of iron fills my mouth, and the crimson energy surges in response, feeding off my anger and hurt.

“Fine,” I growl to the magic, “If you won’t help, I’ll do it myself.”

The red power responds immediately, filling my sinews with a vengeful strength. I’m no longer just Dolly, the bunny shifter—I’m a conduit for something wilder, something that doesn’t play by the rules of man or beast.

I’m both beast and ethereal power married as one, like an ancient myth.

With newfound ferocity, I launch myself back into the fray, determined to beat this goddamned ringer and show the entire world that they cannot force me to submit. The roar of the crowd is a feral soundtrack to my defiance. Every shout, every cheer, ignites my will todominate. I’m battered and bloody, but surrender isn’t in my vocabulary—not with my mates, my men, urging me on from the sidelines, their voices a fuel that burns hotter with each beat of my rabbit heart.

“Fuck off, dog breath,” I snarl through clenched teeth as I kick out with my oversized bunny feet, sending Zoya skidding across the ring’s boundary. My blood-soaked uniform clings to my skin, but I’m beyond caring. I swipe the trickle of red from my eyes, clarity returning just in time to evade another lunging attack. In my head, I beg the magic to help me before this freakshow gets me on the ground and I’m pinned for good.

It’s as if the magic hears the rage and desperation in my mental voice and decides it’s finally time to listen. My internal power surges, flooding my limbs with a strength that feels like it could shatter mountains. A surge of Hulk-like power propels my fists into Zoya’s flesh, the impact reverberating through the arena. She falls, and I’m on her in an instant, my legs coiling around her thick neck, my thighs iron bands of unyielding force.

Thunder thighs save lives, baby.

Her struggle weakens, her body going limp as I tighten my hold, and I turn my head, locking eyes with the audience. My grin is all malice and triumph—a bloodied, bruised siren calling them to witness my victory. They oblige with screams and applause, their frenzy peaking just as the referee’s count begins.

“Nine...” he starts, but his voice drowns in a shriek that pierces the air, followed by a resounding bang that echoes off the stadium walls.

My gaze snaps upward. A metallic orb streaks across the sky, like a round missile aimed straight for us. Instinct takes over as I give the canine one final squeeze, a crunch beneath my thighs, and Zoya is silent forever. I spring up, my focus honed on the bizarre sphere descending toward the field.

I’m probably going to pay for that later, but I can’t worry about itnow.

“This is either a stupid crowd toy or something much, much worse, but we can’t be too careful,” I mutter, sprinting along its projected path. The orb’s reflection glints in my eye, an invitation to play hero—or show off, but I don’t know which..

Silence blankets the stadium now, an expectant hush that fuels my decision. Channeling the Giselle of the star of my favorite baseball movie, I slide into a perfect split just beneath the falling object, arms outstretched. It lands in my grasp, and I hoist it overhead, a victorious Pred Peach in a tableau of glory. Cameras flash, capturing the moment for eternity and I tilt my head back like a bloody, vicious pin-up bunny.

Then, without warning, the orb bursts, releasing a shimmering cloud of sparkles that envelops the entire stadium. For a heartbeat, it’s beautiful—then the coughing starts, a chorus of hacking and wheezing that spreads like wildfire among the stunned spectators. The glittering haze drifts, a fairy-tale fog turning nightmarish as the first cough rips through my throat.

My grip on the orb slackens, and it clatters to the ground, forgotten. I stumble back, instinctively trying to escape an enemy that doesn’t bleed or bruise—an enemy I can’t fight with fists of fury.

“Can’t breathe,” I gasp, the word barely a whisper past my lips as more coughs seize me, each one like sandpaper grating against my lungs. The crowd’s cheers morph into a cacophony of choking sounds, a collective struggle for air that drowns out the fallen wolf’s silence. My eyes stream, blurring the world into smudges of color as I scan the chaos. Faces contort in panic; bodies double over, hands clawing at throats.

“Shit, shit, shit...” The curse is a mantra, punctuated by my own hacking coughs.