Badass in Disguise (Shadow) novel Chapter 63

Chapter 63

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The black fighter’s rage was a palpable thing–hot and dense in the dusty air between us. I could feel the crowd’s collective intake of breath as we squared off. My intervention had created a tableau that no one had expected to see at La Corona.

“Zach,” I called out, not taking my eyes off my opponent. “Get John out of here.”

Zach hesitated only a moment before vaulting into the pit and dragging John’s bloody form away. The black fighter didn’t even spare them a glance–his focus was entirely on me now, his new prey.

“Who the fuck does this bitch think she is?” someone shouted from the crowd.

“Is she trying to be Nobody?” another voice called out. “Looks like a cheap knockoff to me!”

The murmurs spread through the arena. Nobody–the nickname they’d given Titan Defense Group’s former commander. My former identity. The reputation I’d built with blood and broken bones.

“Don’t underestimate her,” a voice warned. “I saw her fight a few days before. She’s better than Ryan.”

The black fighter circled me, muscles gleaming with sweat and oil. He was at least twice my weight, towering over me like a small mountain of testosterone and aggression. His smile revealed a gold

tooth as he sized me up.

“Little girl,” he said, voice thick with a Nigerian accent. “You made big mistake.”

He bent down, dipping his fingers in John’s blood that pooled on the ground. Then, maintaining eye contact with me, he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean. The crowd roared its

approval at this theatrical display of savagery.

“I’m going to enjoy breaking you,” he continued, cracking his massive knuckles. “Maybe keep you alive a little longer than the last one.”

My voice came out cold and flat. “You’re digging your own grave.”

From the corner of my eye, I caught movement in the VIP section. Ethan Haxton had moved to the edge of his seat, his sharp gaze fixed on me. He wasn’t watching with horror like Connor beside him. No, there was something else in his eyes–assessment, calculation, and unmistakable interest.

The fighter lunged without warning, surprising me with his speed. But my body reacted on pure instinct, muscle memory from a lifetime of combat. I pivoted, using his momentum against him as I

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dropped and spun, rising with a vicious knee strike aimed at his blocking forearm.

The impact was jarring. I heard gasps from the crowd as the force of my strike drove the much larger man backward. His eyes widened in shock–he clearly hadn’t expected such strength from someone

my size.

I didn’t give him time to recover. I pressed forward, ducking under his desperate swing and delivering a perfect side kick to his sternum. The sound of his ribs cracking echoed in the sudden.

silence of the arena.

He staggered back, his face contorted with pain and disbelief. Then, with a roar of fury, he charged like a wounded bull. I waited until the last possible second before dropping to one knee and driving

my fist upward into his solar plexus.

The fighter’s momentum carried him forward even as his body went limp. He crashed to the ground face–first, skidding through the dirt until he hit the wall of the arena. Blood poured from his mouth

as he tried and failed to rise.

Complete silence fell over La Corona. I stood alone in the center of the pit, not even breathing hard.

“Holy shit,” someone finally whispered, the words carrying in the stillness.

I turned slowly, facing the crowd. “Anyone else want to try?”

In the VIP section, I saw Connor’s jaw hanging open. Ethan, on the other hand, had a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

A man jumped into the pit–lean and muscular, with a tattoo of a scorpion on his neck. He didn’t waste time with words, immediately launching into a flying kick. I sidestepped, caught his ankle, and used his momentum to slam him into the ground. Before he could recover, my foot connected with his temple, and he was out cold.

“Next,” I said coolly.

They came one after another. A fighter with brass knuckles who never landed a single blow. A knife fighter whose weapon I turned against him, leaving a shallow cut across his chest before knocking him unconscious. A man who tried to grapple me to the ground, only to find himself in a chokehold until he tapped out.

Five, six fighters in rapid succession. Each time, I stood victorious, barely breaking a sweat. After each victory, I spoke the same word: “Next.”

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The seventh fighter tried to be clever, circling behind me while I was finishing with his predecessor. The crowd’s reaction gave him away–a subtle shift in their focus, a few gasps of anticipation. I spun just as he lunged, meeting his charge with a perfectly timed knee to the face. Blood sprayed as his nose shattered, and he dropped like a stone.

I turned in a slow circle, surveying the crowd. The atmosphere had changed completely. The mockery was gone, replaced by a stunned, almost reverent silence.

“Is this the best La Corona has to offer?” I called out, my voice carrying across the arena. “I thought

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