Chapter 23: Dressing for Vengeance
The locker room was silent except for the harsh rattle of Ingrid’s breath and the distant thump of bass from the arena above. Stale sweat, cheap disinfectant, and the coppery tang of fresh blood hung thick in the humid air. Ingrid leaned heavily against a chipped blue locker, her forehead pressed to the cool metal. Every breath was a jagged sawblade through her ribs, echoing the deep, sickening throb radiating from her core. Her powerful thighs trembled uncontrollably, slick with sweat and something else, something warm and insistent soaking through the wadded gauze she’d stuffed into the skimpy red shorts. The ridiculous high-heeled gladiator sandals felt like instruments of slow torture now, the straps cutting into her swollen calves. She braced one hand against the locker, the other pressed low on her abdomen, knuckles white.
Across the narrow aisle, leaning against the sinks, her girlfriend watched. Dressed in her own sleek black catsuit and boots, arms crossed, face grim. No pity in those eyes. Just a hard, assessing clarity. She’d seen this before. Lived it alongside her.
"That fucking hag," Ingrid rasped, the words scraping raw in her throat. She tilted her head slightly, the movement sending a fresh wave of nausea rolling through her. The fluorescent light caught the fresh, livid stitches above her brow. "After the bell. Held me down. Shoved her fingers knuckle-deep… inside… while twisting." Her jaw clenched, a muscle jumping. "Like coring an apple." A shudder wracked her frame, forcing a choked gasp. "Felt it tear. Heard it."
Her girlfriend didn’t flinch. "Infection risk?"
"Doc flushed it," Ingrid muttered, squeezing her eyes shut against the memory of the cold speculum, the burning iodine, the doctor’s impassive face. "Said it’s superficial. Just… messy." She barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. "Like a damn faucet." The dampness spread beneath her hand, warm against her trembling thigh. She shifted, wincing, and a fresh trickle escaped, tracing a path down her inner leg. "Stitched the skin outside. Inside…" She trailed off, swallowing hard. "Inside’s just… raw."
Silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken: And Violet’s out there laughing. Probably already planning the next one. The press conference taunts echoed – Still bleeding? – a fresh wave of humiliation cresting over the pain.
Her girlfriend pushed off the sinks, moving with quiet efficiency. She grabbed a clean towel from a stack, dampened it at the sink, and walked over. Without a word, she knelt. Her touch was clinical, detached, as she gently wiped the blood from Ingrid’s inner thigh, the cool water a brief, shocking relief against the inflamed skin. Then she carefully pressed a fresh wad of sterile gauze into place against the saturated fabric of the shorts. Ingrid hissed through her teeth but didn’t pull away. The intimacy of the act, the brutal exposure, was somehow less shaming than Violet’s whispered poison.
"Tournament rules," her girlfriend said, her voice low and steady as she secured the gauze with a strip of tape. "No invasive attacks. She broke them. Flagrantly."
"Ref didn’t see," Ingrid spat. "Or didn’t want to see." The bitterness was a familiar bile. "She knows how to hide it. Shoved her thumb in deep while the other hand clawed my face. Crowd just saw a scramble."
Her girlfriend stood, discarding the bloody towel into a biohazard bin. She looked Ingrid up and down, taking in the pallor beneath the sweat, the tremor in the legs, the way she favoured her left side. "So. Reprisal. Quarter-finals are tomorrow. You fight that newcomer, Sasha. But Violet… she’s watching. Always watching." A predatory glint entered her eyes. "What do you want her to see?"
Ingrid lifted her head, meeting her girlfriend’s gaze. The pain and humiliation hadn't vanished, but they were being forged now, hammered in the furnace of her rage into something cold and lethal. Violet had wanted to degrade her, to break more than flesh. She’d failed. The Iron Maiden was bent, but the core was iron-clad fury.
"Vengeance," Ingrid stated, the word flat and absolute. She pushed away from the locker, forcing herself upright despite the screaming protest from her core, the sharp stab from her shoulder. She took a deliberate step, the gladiator sandals clicking sharply on the tile. Agony lanced through her, white-hot and blinding. She swayed, gripping the locker handle until the metal groaned. Her breathing hitched, shallow and rapid. When she spoke again, her voice was a low, guttural rasp, vibrating with the effort of staying vertical. "Pick my outfit. Black leather thong with the steel-toe stilettos? Or the crotchless red latex with the razor-heeled boots?"
Her girlfriend studied her. Not the trembling legs, not the sweat-slicked skin, but the fire in the steely blue eyes. The utter, terrifying resolve. "The thong shows less skin. Protection. Steel toes crack bone." She paused. "The latex is a dare. An invitation. Vulnerable. Razor heels… they slice deep. Leave scars that never fade." A slow, cold smile touched her lips. "What hurts Violet Moreau more? A broken ankle she can hide? Or a shredded thigh she has to explain? A scar everyone sees?"
Ingrid’s gaze didn’t waver. She remembered the press conference. Violet’s licked lips, the whispered filth about her body, her pain. The deliberate exposure. The humiliation wasn't just physical; it was psychological warfare. Violet fought dirty, exploiting weakness, reveling in shame.
"Make her look," Ingrid breathed. The pain was a constant drumbeat, but her voice was steel. "Make her see what she did. Make her think she’s won. Then make her bleed where the cameras can’t hide it." She took another step, gritting her teeth against the flood of wetness, the tearing sensation deep inside. "The latex. The razors."
Her girlfriend nodded once, sharp and decisive. "The red latex. Burnished crimson. Like fresh blood. And the boots." She walked to a large, heavy equipment case against the wall, flipped the latches. Inside, nestled in foam, lay the outfit. The latex gleamed obscenely under the harsh lights, the crotch a deliberate, yawning void. The boots were weapons: knee-high, crimson leather, the heels thin, vicious spikes of steel, the edges honed to a cruel sharpness almost invisible unless the light caught them just right. "She’ll see the target. She’ll come for it. She won’t see the razors coming."
Ingrid stared at the boots, the cruel points of the heels. The red latex, promising access, vulnerability. A trap dressed as surrender. The ache in her body flared, a brutal counterpoint to the ice spreading through her veins. Violet wanted her broken and bleeding? Fine. She’d give her blood. Violet’s blood.
"Good," Ingrid said. A single word. Cold. Final. She turned, bracing a hand on the sink, and looked at her own reflection in the smeared mirror. Pale. Stitched. Eyes like glacial fire. And beneath it all, the slow, inevitable seep of crimson onto the tile floor between her feet. "Get the tape," she ordered, her voice raw but steady. "We need to seal the gauze tight." Tomorrow, she wouldn’t just fight Sasha. She’d send Violet a message written in razors and pain. The house wasn’t just coming down. She was bringing the demolition crew.
The tape hissed as her girlfriend wound it tight around Ingrid’s upper thigh, sealing the gauze pad against the persistent, warm seep beneath the ruined red shorts. Each pull was a fresh jolt, the adhesive biting into sweat-slicked skin already raw from Violet’s violation. Ingrid stared straight ahead at a crack in the grimy tile wall, breathing shallowly through the sting and the deeper, sickening throb. "Tighter," she ground out, her knuckles white on the sink edge. "Needs to hold. Against… everything."
Her girlfriend pulled the final strip taut, securing it with a firm press. "Done. Won't be comfortable."
"Comfortable died when that bitch decided to play butcher," Ingrid spat, the words thick with venom. She cautiously shifted her weight, testing the binding. The pressure was immense, a vice against the torn flesh, but the flow felt stemmed. For now. A cold, metallic tang filled her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue.
The locker room door banged open, making them both flinch. Tournament Director Petrov stood silhouetted, his cheap suit rumpled, clipboard clutched like a shield. His gaze flickered nervously over Ingrid's battered state, lingering for a microsecond on the blood staining the leg of her shorts before snapping up. "Nielsen. Gear inspection. Now." His voice held its usual bureaucratic drone, but his eyes darted away from hers. "Rules stipulate pre-fight verification."
Ingrid pushed off the sink, the gladiator sandals striking the tile with a sharp, defiant click. Pain radiated up her legs, a symphony conducted by Violet. She didn’t hide the wince. Let him see. Let them all see. "Inspect away, Petrov," she rasped, spreading her arms slightly, the movement pulling at the stitches over her eye. "Admiring the handiwork your refs ignored?"
Petrov ignored the jab, stepping inside. His eyes scanned her, lingering on the vicious points of the crimson razor-heeled boots her girlfriend held. He cleared his throat. "Crotchless attire… technically permissible. Provocative, but permissible." He pointed a stubby finger at the boots. "Those are not. Rule 7.1 B: Footwear must expose the toes. Full coverage boots are prohibited outside of specialty gear bouts. Safety hazard. Can't have concealed weapons." He tapped his clipboard. "You know the rules, Nielsen. Need open footwear." He glanced pointedly at the gladiator sandals she still wore, their studded straps digging into her swollen calves. "Like those. Or sandals. Strappy heels. Toes visible."
Ingrid froze. The cold, focused rage that had been her anchor shattered into white-hot shards. Toes visible? After what Violet had done? After choosing the latex specifically as a trap, the razors as her answer? Her gaze snapped to the brutal, beautiful crimson boots, then down to her own aching feet encased in the torturous sandals Violet had seen her bleed in. The sandals that showed the vulnerability Violet had exploited. "Open footwear?" Her voice was dangerously low, a vibration more than a sound. "You want me barefoot for that harpy after she fisted me on the mats?"
Petrov took a half-step back, color rising in his neck. "The rules are clear, Nielsen. No boots covering the toes. It's a safety standard. Prevents… concealed enhancements." He glanced again at the razor heels meaningfully. "Choose compliant footwear within the hour or face disqualification. Those," he jabbed a finger at the crimson boots, "are not compliant." He turned abruptly and left, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow thud.
Silence crashed back in, thicker, heavier than before. Ingrid stared at the closed door, the image of Violet’s mocking smile, the feel of those invading fingers, the press conference taunt – Still bleeding? – burning behind her eyes. Her chosen armor, her weapon, rejected. The razor heels, meant for Violet’s flesh, useless. The latex, suddenly less a dare and more just… exposed.
Her girlfriend picked up one crimson boot, running a finger along the deadly sharp edge of the heel. "Safety standard," she muttered, the words dripping with contempt. "Right." She looked at Ingrid, her expression grim. "So. Sandals? Or find different strappy hell? Open toe means vulnerability. Especially… down there." Her gaze flickered meaningfully towards Ingrid’s taped thigh.
Ingrid didn’t answer immediately. She looked down at her own feet. The gladiator sandals. The straps cutting into angry, swollen skin. Her exposed toes, painted a chipped red, looked alien, vulnerable on the gritty floor. Violet would see them. Violet would know exactly where to aim. To stomp. To grind. The rules demanded open footwear. They demanded she offer her wounds on a platter. Her jaw worked, a muscle leaping in her temple. The stitches above her eyebrow pulled tight. The throb between her legs intensified, a brutal pulse keeping time with her fury. She had to choose open footwear by the rules.