Chapter 44: Bernice's urethral assault turns Serenity's victory lap into a humiliating spectacle, her bare feet slipping in puddles of her own urine as the crowd roars with laughter.
The world was a liquid, blurry thing. A vortex of screaming faces and buzzing lights that spun around a single, fixed point of agony.
It wasn’t the pain between her legs, though that was a bright, white-hot brand of violation. It was the hot piss streaming down her thighs, soaking her skirt, puddling on the canvas around her bare, trembling feet. The shame was a colder, deeper flood, drowning out the cheers of the crowd, the bell, the ref’s hesitant hands trying to guide her to a corner she couldn’t see.
Her body was doing something animal, something beyond control, and all she could do was stand there, shivering in the aftermath, leaking.
Then Marcus was there.
He’d vaulted the barrier, ignoring the security guards who made half-hearted grabs at his arms. He didn’t see them. He only saw her. The victor, reduced to this humiliated, trembling statue. His face, usually a canvas of gentle worry, was stone. A terrifying, furious stone.
He tore his flannel shirt off, not caring about the buttons that pinged off the cage mesh. In one fluid motion, he wrapped it around her waist, tying the sleeves tightly to create a makeshift shield. He didn’t flinch from the wet heat. He just covered it.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice low, a command that cut through the roar. “Eyes on me, Ren.”
Her gaze, wide and unseeing, dragged up to his. The icy determination was gone, replaced by a child’s shock.
“We’re walking out of here,” he said, his arm a steel bar around her shoulders, turning her forcibly away from the ring, from Bernice’s limp, smiling form being attended to by her crew. “You walk. You hear me? You walk out like the queen you are.”
He propelled her forward, his body a battering ram against the crowd that parted reluctantly. The mocking cheers morphed into something else—awed murmurs at the sheer, terrifying force of Marcus’s stare. He didn’t look at anyone but the exit sign above the door.
In the grimy back hallway, the world shrunk to the slap of her wet feet on concrete and the harsh buzz of a single bulb. The club medic, a tired-looking man named Leo, intercepted them at the door to the “medical room,” which was really just a storage closet with a stool.
“Marcus, I gotta look at her, that was—”
“You’re not touching her,” Marcus growled, the sound coming from a place Serenity had never heard. “Get your kit. Get painkillers. The strong ones. Now.”
Leo vanished.
Serenity’s knees buckled. Marcus caught her, lowering her onto the stool with a gentleness that belied the storm in his eyes. He knelt before her, his hands cupping her face. “Breathe. Just breathe with me.” He took exaggerated breaths, in and out, until her own ragged panting began to sync.
Leo returned with a green metal box. Marcus took it from him. “Out.”
“For God’s sake, man, I’m a medic!”
“And she’s my wife. Out.”
The door clicked shut. The silence was immense.
“It won’t stop,” Serenity whispered, staring at the dark stain spreading on the worn flannel around her waist.
“It will.” Marcus’s hands were steady as he opened the kit. He found sterile wipes, a packet of antiseptic ointment. “Ren, I need to… I need to see. To clean it. Okay?”
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, her eyes fixed on a crack in the wall.
He worked with a devastating tenderness. The wipes were cool, his touch feather-light. She flinched once, a full-body shudder, and he stopped, his own breath catching. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Not your fault,” she breathed.
“It is. I let you come back here. I agreed to this.”
“You loved me enough to try.” Her voice gained a sliver of steel. “This is on her. Only her.”
He cleaned her as best he could, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped. The physical damage was, miraculously, superficial tears, not a rupture. The violation was something no antiseptic could reach. He helped her into a pair of sweatpants Leo had left, then tapped two heavy-duty pain pills into her palm. She dry-swallowed them, her throat working.
The door opened. It wasn’t Leo.
Big Mike, the club’s promoter, filled the doorway, his tailored suit at odds with the gloom. His expression was unreadable. “Hell of a finish,” he said, his voice bland.
Marcus rose slowly to his feet, placing himself between Mike and Serenity. He said nothing.
“Crowd’s wired. Talking about it for weeks. The purse for tonight…” He slid a thick envelope from his inside pocket. “Plus a bonus. For the spectacle.”
Marcus didn’t move to take it. “She’s done.”
Mike’s eyebrows rose. “Done? Jones, she just cemented her legacy. They’re calling it the ‘Golden Shower Showdown.’ It’s ugly, but it’s iconic. Her next fight, the gate will be triple.”
“There is no next fight.” Serenity’s voice cut through the thick air. She stood, using the wall for support, her color returning in two angry spots on her cheeks. “You can take your bonus and shove it. I want my full winner’s purse. And I want her banned.”
Mike chuckled, a dry, papery sound. “Bernice is already banned. Ambulance took her. Detached retina, broken orbital, probable jaw fracture. She won’t be seeing anything but a hospital wall for a long time.” He tossed the envelope onto the stool. It landed with a fat thump. “But you can’t retire. Not now. The people want a finale. A retirement match. A coronation. We can do it at the old warehouse on 12th, pack in a thousand. You’ll walk away set for life.”
Marcus took a step forward. “She said she’s done.”
Mike looked past him, his eyes locking on Serenity. “You’re a fighter, Fury. This is how it ends? With a whimper? With that being the last thing they remember?” He shook his head, a parody of disappointment. “You deserve a parade, not… this. Think about it.”
He left, the smell of his cigar lingering behind.
The envelope sat between them, a ugly green brick. Serenity looked at it, then at her hands. The knuckles were split, already purpling. The hands that had finally, truly beaten Bernice.
“He’s right,” she said, her voice hollow.
Marcus turned, stricken. “What?”
“Not about the fight. He’s right about the last thing they remember.” She finally looked at him, and the ice was back in her eyes, but it was fractured, dangerous. “I won. I beat her into a coma. And all anyone will talk about is what she did to me at the buzzer.” She picked up the envelope, weighing it. “That’s my legacy? Pissing myself in a cage?”
“No,” Marcus said fiercely. “Your legacy is that you provided. You survived. You’re walking out.”
“I want to walk out clean,” she said, and the words were a promise, a new and terrible resolve. She looked at the door Mike had exited through. “I want a parade.”
A deep, cold dread settled in Marcus’s stomach. He knew that look. It was the same look she had when she agreed to this last fight. It was the look that promised more pain.
Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the night—Bernice’s escort to the hospital. Inside the closet, Serenity Jones stood straighter, the shock burning away, replaced by a colder, more calculating fire. The victory was hers, but the war, it seemed, had just found a new front.