Chapter 58: Uterine Payback
The sound was a wet, sickening thud that seemed to suck the noise right out of the arena for a split second. Ingrid’s knee, driven with every ounce of vengeful strength she possessed, connected deep. Violet’s body went rigid, a silent, shocked statue before the air left her lungs in a single, choked whuff.
She didn’t scream. She folded, collapsing forward onto the canvas as if her strings had been cut. A fine mist of blood, not from a cut but from something internal, speckled the mat between them.
Ingrid stumbled back, her own body shrieking in protest. The fire in her womb was a live wire, and the memory of Violet’s invading fingers was a ghost-limb of agony. She braced her hands on her knees, head hanging, spitting a string of pink-tinged saliva onto the floor. The crowd’s roar was a distant, oceanic thing.
Violet was moving, a slow, pained curl. She pushed herself onto her side, her face a mask of ashen pain. Her green eyes, though, held no surrender. Only a colder, more calculating hatred.
“You… always were a… clumsy fighter,” Violet rasped, each word a struggle. She clutched her lower abdomen. “No finesse. Just a… sledgehammer.”
“It got the job done,” Ingrid grunted, straightening up. A hot trickle traced a path down her inner thigh. She ignored it. The pain was a focus now, a sharpening stone.
“Did it?” Violet’s laugh was a dry, brittle thing. She slowly, painfully, got to her knees. The beaded flip-flops were askew on her feet. “You’re still bleeding, kid. I can smell it. Brenda opened the door, and I just… walked right in.”
The taunt was a needle, precisely aimed. Ingrid felt a fresh wave of nausea, part pain, part rage. She took a step forward, her gladiator sandal squelching slightly in a patch of damp canvas.
Violet didn’t retreat. Instead, she shifted her weight, one hand still pressed to her stomach, the other sliding the frayed obi of her kimono. The purple silk fell open, revealing the black lace beneath and the taut, scarred skin of her torso. It was a gesture of contempt, not seduction. A reminder that she had nothing left to hide.
“You think this is about winning a fight?” Violet said, her voice gaining a shred of its old venom. “This is about legacy. My legacy. You were supposed to be the crown jewel. Instead, you’re just… broken merchandise.”
Ingrid lunged. It wasn’t a calculated move. It was pure reaction, a red mist descending. She didn’t aim for a hold or a lock. She just threw herself at the older woman, a battering ram of muscle and fury.
Violet was ready. As Ingrid came in, she dropped onto her back, using Ingrid’s own momentum against her. Her legs scissored up, catching Ingrid around the neck and one arm in a desperate, awkward head-scissors. It wasn’t clean, but it was tight. The world narrowed to the pressure on Ingrid’s carotid artery.
Spots danced in her vision. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull buzz. She could feel the rough texture of Violet’s kimono against her cheek, smell the coppery tang of blood and old sweat.
“See?” Violet hissed from beneath her, her voice strained with the effort of holding the hold. “Clumsy. Predictable.”
Ingrid’s free hand flailed, fingers scraping against the canvas. They brushed against something small and hard. A bead. One of the decorative beads from Violet’s flip-flop, torn loose in the struggle. She closed her fist around it, the tiny object biting into her palm.
With a final, guttural shout, Ingrid didn’t try to pry the legs apart. She drove her elbow back, straight down, into the center of Violet’s already-bruised abdomen.
The hold broke instantly. Violet’s legs spasmed open with a choked cry.
Ingrid rolled away, gasping, her throat on fire. She came up on her hands and knees, facing Violet who was curled back into a ball, retching dryly onto the mat.
They were both broken now. Both bleeding. Both breathing in ragged, painful hitches.
Ingrid pushed herself to her feet. She stood over Violet, swaying slightly. She opened her fist and let the single, purple bead fall. It bounced once on Violet’s back and came to rest in the pool of her own spilled kimono.
“Your legacy,” Ingrid panted, her voice raw, “is a loose bead on a dirty floor.”
She didn’t go for a pin. She just stood there, waiting for Violet to find a reason, any reason, to get up. The fight wasn’t about points anymore. It was about which one of them could endure one more second of this.
It was about which one of them could endure one more second of this.
Violet’s body uncoiled from the canvas with a sudden, vicious energy. Her hand, quick as a whip, snaked out and seized the strap of Ingrid’s gladiator sandal, yanking hard to twist the ankle. Ingrid’s balance shattered, and she crashed down beside the older woman in a heap of tangled limbs and pain.
“Thought you were done?” Violet rasped, her voice gritty with blood and effort. She was on top of Ingrid in a flash, her knees driving into Ingrid’s ribs with brutal force. The impact forced a choked gasp from Ingrid’s lungs, sharp agony blooming from her already bruised side.
Ingrid’s vision swam, the smoky lights of the arena blurring above. She could smell the iron-rich scent of their mixed blood and the stale sweat soaking Violet’s kimono. Violet’s fingers, cold and slippery, found their way back to Ingrid’s throat, squeezing with a promise of oblivion.
But Ingrid’s free hand was already moving, clawing at Violet’s face. Her thumb dug into the soft tissue near Violet’s eye, pressing with desperate intensity. Violet jerked back with a sharp, guttural cry, her grip faltering for a critical second.
Ingrid bucked her hips, trying to dislodge the weight, but the movement sent a searing tear through her lower abdomen. The memory of Violet’s invasion flared white-hot, a ghost pain that threatened to undo her. “Get off me,” she snarled, the words thick with rage and phlegm.
Violet’s response was to shift her weight, pinning Ingrid’s legs more firmly. She leaned down, her bloodied face inches from Ingrid’s. “Brenda was right,” she hissed, each word a poison dart. “You’re hollowed out. Nothing left to break.”
The taunt ignited something primal. Ingrid’s head snapped forward, a clumsy but effective headbutt that connected with Violet’s already broken nose. Cartilage crunched wetly, and Violet reeled back, blood showering down onto Ingrid’s chest.
Ingrid shoved with all her remaining strength, rolling Violet off and scrambling to her feet. She stood swaying, every muscle screaming, every breath a knife in her side. Violet rose slower, one hand clutching her face, blood streaming between her fingers.
The crowd’s roar had faded to a muted, expectant hum. They were both silhouettes of ruin against the glaring lights. Violet lowered her hand, showing a grimace that was more a baring of teeth than a smile. “Okay, kid,” she slurred through the blood. “No more talking.”
She charged, a low, grappling lunge aimed at Ingrid’s waist.