Page 25 of Burning Embers

Everything has been changing so quickly I can barely wrap my head around it. One second, I was in a small home shoving a bookcase against the door to keep my pervy foster brother out. The next, I’m…safe? I think? Maybe? It’s just so hard to put your trust in someone when you’ve been burned as often as I have.

Because every time shit hits the fan,I’mthe problem. Not him or her. Me. The social workers don’t care that the only reason I stabbed my foster brother was because he snuck into my bedroom. They don’t care that I kicked my old foster dad in the dick because he was being a perv. They don’t care that my foster mom slapped me, so I slapped her right the fuck back.

I’m the problem.

Me.

Always me.

Fighting in the ring is the only way I know how to release all of this rage inside of me. This fury… It burns me alive, eating at my skin like teeth made of fire. Only fighting dampens the flames and allows me to just breathe easily.

I take a moment to study the girl across from me—my opponent.

She’s tall and willowy and appears to be in her late twenties. Her hair is cut in a stylish bob that stops just below her chin, red streaks scattered throughout. She wears a lime-green sports bra that strains against her ample cleavage—an intentional outfit choice on her part, I presume. The men are already ogling her and screaming for her to win.

“Good luck,” she tells me when she catches my eye.

I can tell she actually means it.

“You too.” I give her a nod of respect that she returns.

Sometimes, it’s hard being one of the few women in a male-dominated sport, especially when that sport is done illegally in the barn on the outskirts of town. I’ve quickly become friends with a lot of the women here, despite the bloodshed.

“AND GOOO!” Dennis hollers, and then he quickly moves out of the circle.

The men and women present begin to scream, but their words filter through one ear and immediately exit the other. I can’t focus on them. Only my opponent matters.

I study her quickly, searching for any weaknesses, but she seems to know what she’s doing. Her stance is loose and casual, allowing her to be nimble on her feet, and her eyes are hyper-focused on my face. This is obviously a woman who has fought before.

Good.

I like a challenge.

A cunning smirk tugs up my lips as I feign to the left. When she moves to counter my attack, I dive to the right and throw an uppercut at her jaw. She immediately punches at my stomach, and I’m not quick enough to move out of the way. I instinctively keel forward—which is my first mistake.

She slams a punch at my face that has me seeing stars and then follows that with two quick jabs to my shoulder.

Fuck.

She dances out of my way before I can return her blows.

“I don’t want to hurt you, little girl,” she says, her tone halfway between teasing and serious. “Just bow out now.”

I charge at her while she’s speaking, my head lowered like a ram’s, but fling myself to the ground a second before I reach her, sliding through her legs. She stumbles, and I quickly roll myself back to my feet and kick her in the shins from behind.

She falls to the ground on her hands and knees, and I jump on her back, hugging her neck with one hand and raining punches on her face with my other. She wiggles from side to side, desperately trying to buck me off of her, but I’m a stubborn bitch when I want to be.

She suddenly pauses, and I realize why a second too late.

With a yelp, she throws herself backwards, crushing me beneath her. Pain reverberates through my spine as I ricochet off the wooden floorboards.

Larissa attempts to roll off of me—probably so she can straddle me—but I perform a backwards roll to get away from her. Then, while she’s on her knees struggling to her feet, I jump at her and wrap both of my legs around her neck, forcing her to the ground. I find myself straddling her shoulders as she lies on her back, peering up at me with one swollen eye.

She knows as well as I do that there’s no escaping this position. I can see the defeat in her gaze…as well as her begrudging respect.

Keeping her eyes trained on me, she taps her fingers against the ground, signaling that she yields.

“And that’s the end of the match!” Dennis rushes over and all but pulls me to my feet, holding my arm up in the air. “Isabella is our winner!”