Chapter 26: Knuckle-Deep Vengeance
The roar of the crowd hit like a physical wave, thick with cheap beer, sweat, and raw bloodlust. The ring lights, blindingly white and hot, turned the canvas into a griddle. Ingrid blinked sweat from her stinging eyes, the sting above her brow a dull counterpoint to the inferno raging lower.
Violet danced just outside her reach, a wraith in torn purple silk. Her kimono flapped open, revealing the stark black lace thong and the lean, scar-latticed muscle beneath. Her beaded flip-flops slapped lightly on the canvas, a mocking, flimsy sound that belied the feral intelligence in her green eyes. A thin trickle of blood leaked from her nose where Ingrid’s elbow had connected earlier.
"Getting slow, Maiden," Violet taunted, her voice raspy but carrying easily over the din. She feinted forward, then spun away with surprising speed. "That iron's rusting."
Ingrid didn't rise to the bait. She shifted her weight, the custom leather corset biting into her ribs with each breath, the red shorts plastered to her sweat-slicked thighs. The high-heeled gladiator sandals felt like anchors, but they grounded her. The fresh bandage beneath the shorts' edge burned like a brand. Violet’s earlier violation – the tearing fingers, the internal damage – pulsed with every heartbeat, a constant, agonizing reminder. It wasn’t just pain; it was fuel, distilled fury burning in her gut.
"You talk too much, Violet," Ingrid growled, her voice low and rough. "Always did." She lunged. Not a wild charge, but a calculated burst. Her fist aimed for the solar plexus.
Violet was ready, twisting like an eel. She didn’t block. She slid inside the punch, one hand darting past Ingrid’s guard. Not for a blow. For a grip.
Ingrid saw it coming – the predatory focus on her groin. Instinct screamed dodge, but the deep, ripped tissue inside her core screamed louder, locking her muscles for a critical split-second.
Violet’s hand, fingers tipped with razor-sharp, lacquered nails, seized the sodden edge of Ingrid’s tiny red shorts. A savage yank. Fabric tore. Cool air hit wet skin. Before Ingrid could slam her knee up, Violet’s other hand was there. Not grabbing. Carving.
The nails weren't just sharp; they were like shards of glass. They scraped over the swollen, vulnerable flesh around Ingrid’s entrance, already bruised and torn from their backstage encounter. Crimson trails bloomed instantly on the pale skin, stark and obscene under the harsh lights. Ingrid gasped, a sound ripped from her lungs, more shock than pain – yet.
Then came the plunge.
Violet drove three fingers knuckle-deep into the abused passage with brutal, twisting force. Exactly like before. Targeting the fresh, raw damage hidden beneath the bandage.
Agony detonated in Ingrid’s core. White-hot, blinding. It tore through her lower body, a seismic jolt that buckled her knees. Her vision grayed at the edges. Violet’s face swam before her, etched with vicious triumph.
"Told you I’d finish what I started, you frigid bitch," Violet hissed, her breath hot against Ingrid’s ear as she leaned into the violating thrust, twisting her fingers deeper.
Ingrid’s world narrowed to that point of white-hot agony and Violet’s cruel green eyes. The crowd noise vanished. The lights dimmed. Only the tearing, burning violation existed.
But beneath the pain, deeper than the ripped tissue, the cold core of Ingrid’s rage solidified. Like glacial ice. The memory of her girlfriend’s touch grounding her, the scalpel taped high and tight inside her against the pubic bone, just below the bandage’s edge. Hidden. Ready.
Her leg moved. Not with conscious thought, but with the distilled instinct of a lifetime spent fighting. Her right foot, encased in the heavy, studded gladiator sandal, the steel toe cap gleaming dully under the lights, pistoned upwards and outwards. Not a kick for distance. A stomp. A piston-driven hammer blow.
It connected with Violet’s lower ribs, just below her left breast. There was no give. Just a sickening, wet CRACK that seemed to echo louder than the crowd.
Violet’s triumphant sneer vanished. Her eyes bulged. A choked, guttural sound escaped her lips, more animal than human. Her entire body convulsed.
Her fingers, buried deep inside Ingrid, spasmed violently. Not a deliberate twist, but an uncontrolled, agonized jerk. Nails raked like claws against the already shredded inner walls. Fresh, blinding waves of agony ripped through Ingrid as the fingers tore new paths through the damaged tissue.
Violet doubled over, retching, her free hand clutching her shattered ribs. The involuntary spasm tore her impaling fingers free from Ingrid with a final, agonizing rip.
Ingrid didn’t scream. She roared. A sound of pure, feral rage and agony mingled into one primal force. She staggered back a step, the pain in her core a living thing, but her eyes were locked on Violet, who was crumpling, gasping, blood trickling from her mouth now.
The crowd erupted. A mixture of horrified gasps and savage cheers.
Violet looked up, pain and fury warring in her green eyes. She spat blood onto the canvas. "You… broke… my ribs…" she wheezed, each word labored.
Ingrid straightened, every movement sending fire lancing through her lower body. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat and blood mingled on her thighs. She took a deliberate step forward, her gladiator sandal landing heavily near Violet’s head. She looked down at the woman who had violated her, marked her inside and out.
"Only the first one, Violet," Ingrid rasped, her voice a gravelly promise. Her hand drifted, seemingly casually, towards the top edge of her shorts, towards the bandage, towards the hidden promise beneath. "You like playing with your fingers?" A cold, terrible smile touched her split lip. "My turn."
Violet’s labored gasps hitched, her face contorted with agony and disbelief. She clutched her shattered ribs, blood bubbling at her lips. "You... iron-plated... whore," she spat, each word a wet rasp. Her green eyes, clouded with pain, burned with renewed malice.
Ingrid didn’t flinch. The agony radiating from her core was a white-hot forge, hammering her fury into something sharper than Violet’s nails. She took another deliberate step forward, the studded sole of her gladiator sandal scraping the canvas near Violet’s sprawled leg. The crowd’s roar was a distant ocean.
"Always full of talk," Ingrid growled, her voice scraping like gravel. Her hand drifted lower, fingers brushing the sweat-slicked leather corset near her hip bone, just above the sodden bandage edge. The tape holding the scalpel felt cool against her burning skin. "Let’s see what you’ve got left."
Violet’s response wasn’t words. It was pure, feral instinct. Pain and humiliation ignited a desperate, vicious spark. With a guttural snarl, ignoring the scream from her ribs, she lunged upwards from her knees. Not for Ingrid’s face or throat. Straight for the exposed, ravaged core.
Both hands shot out, fingers hooked like talons. The left hand, nails still crusted with Ingrid’s blood, clawed at the torn remnants of the red shorts, ripping them wider. The right hand, slick with her own blood from her mouth, plunged past the shredded fabric.
No hesitation. No finesse. Violet drove the fingers of both hands knuckle-deep into Ingrid’s already violated passage. A brutal, spreading invasion. Her thumbs dug into the swollen, bleeding flesh surrounding the entrance, forcing it wider, tearing the fresh wounds open anew.
Ingrid’s roar wasn’t human. It was the sound of tectonic plates grinding. Her vision whited out completely for a split second, consumed by the sheer, obliterating agony of the double violation. Violet’s fingers felt like molten iron rods twisting inside her, tearing, burning, ripping apart everything they touched. Her knees buckled violently.
Violet screamed too, a raw sound ripped from her own agony as the violent motion jarred her broken ribs. But she held on, fingers spasming deep within Ingrid, her face a mask of savage triumph mixed with excruciating pain. "Ripped... you...apart!" she choked out, her breath hot and bloody against Ingrid’s thigh.
The crowd’s roar hit a fever pitch – horror, fascination, bloodlust merging into one deafening wave. Ingrid swayed, the world tilting. Violet’s fingers were anchors of pure torment, rooting her to the spot. The cold promise of the scalpel beneath the bandage was the only fixed point in the universe of pain.
Ingrid’s free hand slammed down onto Violet’s shoulder, not to push her away, but to brace herself. Her fingers dug into the bony joint above Violet’s shattered ribs. Violet shrieked, her grip momentarily faltering. It was the opening Ingrid needed.
With a surge of willpower that felt like tearing her own soul in half, Ingrid twisted her hips violently towards Violet’s invading hands. The motion drove Violet’s fingers even deeper, sending fresh lightning bolts of agony through Ingrid’s core, but it also brought Violet’s head snapping forward, off balance.
Ingrid’s other hand, the one that had hovered near her hip, moved with glacial, deliberate speed. Not away from the violation, but down, fingers slipping beneath the top edge of her shorts, beneath the damp bandage. Her fingertips found the cool metal handle taped securely against her pubic bone.
The tape ripped free silently. The small, sterile scalpel slid into her grasp. Violet, gasping, trying to regain leverage, didn’t see it. Her focus was solely on grinding her knuckles deeper, twisting her wrists to maximize the internal damage.
Ingrid’s eyes, molten blue fury crystallized into absolute zero, locked onto Violet’s straining neck. She didn’t aim for the hands violating her. She aimed for the source. Her arm pistoned down, the scalpel a silver blur in the harsh ring lights.
The blade punched into the side of Violet’s throat, just below the jawline, with a sickening, wet thunk. It sank deep, grating against bone. Violet’s scream died instantly, choked off into a wet gurgle. Her eyes widened impossibly, shock obliterating the malice. Her hands, buried deep inside Ingrid, went utterly limp.
A fountain of arterial blood, shockingly bright under the lights, sprayed across Ingrid’s leather corset, her thighs, the canvas. Violet’s body convulsed once, violently, then slumped sideways, her fingers sliding free with a final, slick pull. She hit the canvas hard, twitching, the scalpel’s handle protruding obscenely from her neck, blood pulsing rhythmically around it.
Silence crashed over the arena, thick and disbelieving. Ingrid stood swaying, blood dripping from her shredded shorts, Violet’s blood soaking her corset, the agony in her core a distant throb beneath the adrenaline shock. She looked down at Violet’s twitching form, then slowly lifted her gaze to the stunned crowd.
Her voice, when it came, was a raw, blood-streaked whisper that somehow carried to the rafters. "Told you."
The spray of Violet’s blood painted hot streaks across Ingrid’s face, metallic and thick. Silence choked the arena, dense and disbelieving, swallowing the earlier roar. Ingrid stood swaying, the agony in her ripped core a dull thud beneath the shock, her own blood mingling with Violet’s on her thighs.
"Told you," Ingrid rasped again, the words scraping raw from a throat coated in copper. She stared at Violet’s sprawled form, the small scalpel handle protruding obscenely from the side of her neck, pulsing crimson around the steel. Violet’s green eyes stared sightlessly at the blinding overhead lights, her mouth slack.
A tremor ran through Violet’s body. A final, wet gurgle bubbled past the blade. Then, stillness.
Relief was a cold wave, almost buckling Ingrid’s knees. It was over. The violation, the tearing pain deep inside her, the promise of vengeance fulfilled.
Then Violet’s hand moved.
Not a twitch. A deliberate, spastic jerk. Her left arm, flopped uselessly moments before, snapped upwards. Razor-sharp nails, still crusted with Ingrid’s dried blood from the initial assault, scraped across the canvas. They found Ingrid’s exposed, blood-slicked inner thigh, just below the shredded red shorts.
Ingrid flinched, a hiss escaping her. It was a ghost touch, weak, almost pathetic after everything. She tried to step back, her gladiator sandal squeaking on the gore-smeared canvas.
Violet’s fingers dug.
Not deep. But precise. Brutally precise. Ignoring the mortal wound pumping her life onto the mat, ignoring shattered ribs, her green eyes somehow finding Ingrid’s again. Not sightless now. Burning with pure, undiluted malice. Wet, choking sounds escaped her ruined throat around the scalpel.
"Rancid... cu—" The wet gurgle cut off her curse. But her hand moved with shocking speed and vicious intent.
The sharp, lacquered nails didn’t aim for flesh this time. They hooked into the saturated, sticky bandage taped high on Ingrid’s inner thigh, the one covering the deep, internal tear Violet had inflicted backstage. The one hiding the raw agony Ingrid had carried into the ring. Violet’s nails sank through the gauze, through the clotting mess beneath.
And ripped.
The tape tore free with a sickening rip. The sodden gauze peeled away, exposing the inflamed, livid wound beneath – a ragged tear high near the crease of Ingrid’s thigh, still weeping crimson and clear fluid. The air hit it like acid.
Ingrid screamed. A raw, shattered sound ripped from her soul, echoing in the stunned silence. Not from the new pain, but from the utter desecration of it. Violet, dying, was violating her one last time, exposing her deepest wound to the brutal light and the gawking crowd.
Violet’s fingers, slick with fresh blood from the bandage, didn’t stop. They clawed upwards, trembling with effort but driven by pure venom, seeking the swollen, battered flesh just above the exposed wound. Seeking the apex, still throbbing and raw from Violet’s earlier assaults. The nails scraped over the swollen, abraded skin surrounding Ingrid’s entrance.
"Marked... you..." Violet gurgled, a horrific parody of a smile twisting her bloody lips. Her fingers pressed inward, scraping, digging. Not deep penetration this time, but a final, vicious branding. A last, agonizing claim.
The shock kept Ingrid frozen for a heartbeat too long. The pain, layered and blinding – the exposed wound burning, the fresh scrape on her thigh, the nails digging into her most sensitized, damaged flesh – paralyzed her. Violet’s blood was hot on her skin. Her own soaked her shorts. The malice in Violet’s dying eyes was a physical weight.
Then instinct, honed by decades of violence and survival, kicked in. Pure revulsion. Ingrid slammed her knee up, hard, into Violet’s shoulder near the broken ribs. Something crunched wetly. Violet’s body convulsed, a final, violent shudder. The green light in her eyes flickered, dimmed.
Her clawing hand went limp. The nails slid free from Ingrid’s ravaged flesh, leaving fresh, stinging trails. Violet slumped back, truly motionless now, the scalpel standing sentinel in her neck, the frantic pulsing of blood slowing to a thick ooze. The wet rasping stopped.
Silence. Absolute. Ingrid stumbled back, gasping, every breath a knife in her side from the corset, fire blooming anew in her exposed core and her thigh. She stared down at the ruin between her legs – the raw, gaping wound high up, the fresh scratches lower down, the blood pooling under the harsh lights. Violet’s blood covered her, inside and out.
A strangled whimper escaped her, quickly choked back. She forced her gaze upwards, scanning the stunned, silent crowd. Faces blurred into a sea of shock and morbid fascination. Her vision swam. She locked her trembling knees, refusing to fall.
"Medic!" The shout finally pierced the silence, sharp and urgent. Not her girlfriend’s voice. Someone official. Boots thudded towards the ring steps.
Ingrid didn’t look at them. She kept staring at the crowd, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. The exposed wound felt like an open furnace. Violet’s final violation echoed in every nerve ending. She lifted her chin, smearing blood across it with the back of her hand.
Her voice, when it came, was a ruined whisper only she could hear. "Always... one... last... trick."
The medic’s boots thudded on the ring steps, jarringly loud in the sudden quiet. Ingrid swayed, the exposed wound high on her inner thigh radiating white-hot agony. Blood, hers and Violet’s, slicked her legs, pooled darkly on the canvas beneath her gladiator sandals. She kept her chin up, staring blindly past the blinding ring lights into the stunned, silent crowd.
"Easy, Maiden," a gruff voice said close beside her. Hands reached for her shoulders. "Let us get you down."
"No." The word rasped out, raw and final. Ingrid jerked away, nearly buckling as fresh fire lanced up from her core. She locked her trembling knees. "Don't touch me." Her gaze snapped down to Violet’s corpse, the scalpel handle glinting wetly. "Get her out."
The medics hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. One knelt cautiously beside Violet, checking for a pulse he wouldn't find. The other kept wary eyes on Ingrid. "You’re bleeding bad, Nielsen. That…" He gestured vaguely at the exposed tear. "Needs stitching. Now."
"Later." Ingrid’s vision swam. The raw flesh felt flayed open to the humid arena air. She scanned the tunnel entrance, searching for one face. Where was she?
Then she saw her. Pushing past the security cordon at ringside, her black catsuit gleaming under the lights, face pale but set. Her girlfriend vaulted onto the ring apron with surprising grace, ignoring the official trying to block her. Her green eyes locked onto Ingrid’s, wide with horror, then narrowing into fierce resolve.
"Jesus wept, Ingrid," she breathed, dropping to her knees beside her on the bloodied canvas. Her hands hovered, wanting to touch, afraid to hurt. She stared at the exposed wound, the ragged tear weeping crimson and lymph. "That rancid bitch… she ripped it open."
"Always… one last trick," Ingrid managed, a shudder wracking her frame. The adrenaline crash hit like a sledgehammer. The pain surged, overwhelming. Her legs buckled.
Her girlfriend caught her before she hit the mat, strong arms wrapping around her waist, taking her weight. Ingrid gasped, the movement jolting the raw nerve endings. "Got you," her girlfriend murmured, her voice thick. "Lean on me. Just breathe."
Ingrid sagged against her, burying her face in the cool leather of her girlfriend’s shoulder. The familiar scent of her skin, beneath the arena stench, was an anchor. "Hurts," she whispered, the admission ripped from her.
"I know, love. I know." Her girlfriend’s hand gently brushed sweat-plastered hair from Ingrid’s forehead. She glared up at the hovering medics. "Move! Give us space! And get a sterile pad, now!" Her command snapped through the stunned air. One medic scrambled.
Her girlfriend shifted, carefully lowering Ingrid to sit on the canvas, supporting her back. She ripped open the sterile pad packet the medic handed her. "This is gonna sting like hell," she warned, her voice softening only for Ingrid. "Ready?"
Ingrid nodded, jaw clenched. She focused on her girlfriend’s face – the worry lines, the fierce determination – anything but the impending agony. The sterile pad pressed against the livid wound.
Fire exploded. Ingrid arched, a choked cry escaping. Her fingers dug into her girlfriend’s leather-clad thigh. "Fuck! Easy!"
"Shh, shh," her girlfriend soothed, applying firm pressure. "Deep breaths. Channel it. Into me." She held the pad steady, her other arm tight around Ingrid’s shoulders. "Remember the scalpel? Cold steel. Focus on that cold."
Ingrid gasped, sucking in air. The cold steel. Taped high and tight. Hidden. Used. The memory was a sliver of ice in the inferno. She forced her breathing to slow, ragged inhales and exhales. The pressure was agony, but the bleeding slowed.
"Good," her girlfriend murmured. "That’s it. Keep breathing." She glanced down at the pad, already soaking through dark red. "Needs pressure. And stitches. Lots of them." Her gaze flicked to Violet’s body being zipped into a black bag. "Petrov’s hack won’t cut it. Not for this."
Ingrid’s head swam. The arena lights blurred. "Finals…" she mumbled. "Tomorrow…"
Her girlfriend snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "Finals? Sweetheart, you’re leaking like a sieve onto Petrov’s expensive canvas." She gently adjusted the pad. "Tournament’s over for you. Unless you plan on fighting from a hospital gurney."
Ingrid’s eyes fluttered shut. Exhaustion pressed down, heavier than the pain. The roar of the crowd, Violet’s malice, the sickening crack of ribs… it all receded into a dull buzz. Only the pressure on her wound and her girlfriend’s solid presence felt real.
"Scalpel worked," Ingrid whispered, a ghost of satisfaction touching her lips.
"Yeah," her girlfriend replied softly, her thumb stroking Ingrid’s shoulder. "It worked." She looked up as two new medics arrived with a stretcher. Her voice turned sharp, authoritative. "Careful with her! Support her hips. That wound’s deep. And watch the corset laces – don’t constrict her breathing." She met Ingrid’s fading gaze. "Hold on, Iron Maiden. Just hold on. We’re getting you patched up."
As they lifted her onto the stretcher, the jolt sent fresh agony tearing through her core. Ingrid groaned, her hand instinctively flying to her lower abdomen. Her girlfriend’s hand instantly covered hers, squeezing tight. "Look at me," she commanded. Ingrid forced her eyes open, meeting those fierce green pools.
"Still with me?" her girlfriend asked, walking beside the stretcher as they moved towards the tunnel.
Ingrid managed a weak nod. The tunnel mouth swallowed the harsh lights, plunging them into relative gloom. The roar of the crowd faded, replaced by the hurried footsteps of the medics and the rhythmic squeak of the stretcher wheels.
"Good," her girlfriend said, her voice low and intense in the sudden quiet. "Because stitching you back together after Violet’s little farewell gift?" She leaned closer, her breath warm against Ingrid’s ear. "That’s gonna take more than butterfly strips and vodka."