The Burned Reaper Beats Her Ex to a Pulp

I was the undefeated queen of the underground octagon—a body held together by broken bones and spilled blood, all to build Dorian's fighting empire from the ground up.

But when he'd made it to the top in his tailored suits and polished shoes, suddenly my scars made me too crude, too ugly to stand beside him.

He ordered me to throw my title defense—told me to take a dive for some rich girl whose daddy bought her a spot in the cage. And when that woman shattered both my legs with an illegal knee strike, he just stood there and watched.

I clawed my way out of that wreckage—barely breathing. Left him a blood-stained divorce decree and vanished.

While he mourned over what he thought were my ashes, I was already training alongside the legendary king of the octagon, rebuilding myself from the ground up.

Now I'm back—stronger than ever.

This time, I'm going to break that princess's pretty face and crush his pathetic ego underfoot.

"Tonight's fight. Two minutes into the third round, you drop your guard and let Bianca knock you out."

The words sliced through the stale silence of the locker room like a blade.

My hands froze mid-wrap, white medical tape dangling loose around my knuckles.

My gaze traveled up from his spotless Italian loafers, past the razor-sharp crease in his suit pants, finally landing on Dorian Sterling's expressionless face.

Seven years as my boss. Three years as my secret husband.

And this was his order.

"Excuse me?" My voice came out flat, cold as steel.

Dorian's impatience flashed. He snapped the fight contract shut and flung it at my face. The sharp edge of the paper sliced across my cheekbone, drawing a sting.

"I said you're taking a dive tonight. It's in the script. Board decision."

He looked at me like I was merchandise past its sell-by date. "Her daddy just cut a fifty-million-dollar check to Iron Throne. She needs the perfect pro debut, and you—the undefeated 'Iron Maiden'—you're her perfect stepping stone."

I laughed—sharp, humorless.

"A stepping stone?" I shot to my feet, closing the distance between us in one stride. My eyes locked onto his without flinching.

"Dorian, seems like you forgot—Iron Throne exists because I built it with my fists in that cage."

"Forty-nine and oh. And now you want me to throw it all away for fifty million? For some trust-fund princess who can't even throw a straight jab?"

"That's enough, Valkyrie!" Dorian's voice cracked like a whip. His eyes raked over my sports bra and exposed torso with undisguised disgust.

"Look at yourself. All those ugly scars." His tone dripped ice. "You think you can still be the face of Iron Throne looking like that?"

"The crowd's sick of watching you bleed like an animal."

"But Bianca's different. She's young, beautiful, flawless. She's the perfect product. The future cash cow this league needs."

Ugly. Animal.

The words rolled off his tongue so casually, like he was discussing defective inventory.

Under his contemptuous stare, my gaze dropped to that immaculate custom suit he wore.

He could stand there looking pristine because I'd bled for every thread.

The four-inch scar across my abdomen—that was the receipt from seven years ago when I took a loan shark's machete meant for him. I'd carried his broken body out of that alley, fought five underground fights while pissing blood for two days straight, just to buy him that suit he wore so effortlessly now.

And now he found the price tag too ugly to look at.

"What if I refuse?" I stared him down.

Dorian scoffed, pulling out his phone with casual cruelty. He tapped the screen, then turned it toward me.

The photo showed rusted iron fencing and the familiar red-brick building behind it.

Harlow House. The only place I hadn't slept on the streets before I turned twelve.

Home to forty-some kids just as lost as I'd been. The one piece of my garbage life I'd die to protect.

"You're free to refuse." Dorian pocketed his phone, thumb sliding across the screen with lazy menace. "Just know that if you don't sign, tomorrow at nine, the bank forecloses on Harlow's property."

"Wonder which rat-infested group home those forty kids will get dumped into?"

My jaw clenched so hard my molars ground together.

I stared at that face. The same face I'd taken thirteen stitches above my eye to protect from street thugs. The same face I'd swallowed half a broken tooth for, choking it down with my own blood.

"You're threatening me with an orphanage?"

I lunged forward, grabbed his lapels, and slammed him against the metal locker behind him.

The impact rang out like a gunshot. My right fist rose, knuckles bone-white.

"Dorian, you're a complete piece of shit."

He didn't even blink. His eyes fixed on my suspended fist, a smug smile playing at his lips—

Then a light, mocking laugh cut through the violent tension like a knife through silk.

Bianca Devereux sauntered in. Brand-new pink custom fight gear, limited-edition sneakers without a scuff mark.

No calluses. No bruises. Not even excess muscle definition. She was clean in a way that didn't belong in this blood-and-sweat-soaked underground arena.

She walked straight between us. She didn't spare a glance at my fist hovering inches from breaking someone's nose.

Instead, she reached out and casually brushed aside the arm I had twisted in Dorian's collar, then linked her own arm through his like she owned him.

As she pressed against him, a diamond necklace swung out from her collarbone, catching the harsh fluorescent light.

I stared at that center stone.

Last month, on my birthday, Dorian had personally promised to have it custom-made for me in Paris. Now it hung around another woman's neck.

"Dorian, still negotiating?" Bianca leaned on his shoulder, tone as casual as ordering takeout. "Valkyrie, don't blame him. I know it's embarrassing to take a dive for me tonight, but Daddy said if the ref raises my hand, he'll double his investment tomorrow."

"Everybody wins. Just think of it as working for your sponsor. Go out there, take a fall, no big deal."

She absently twirled a strand of golden hair around her finger, the movement causing that diamond necklace to catch the light again, throwing blinding refractions.

"Work for you two?"

The muscles in my face twitched. I didn't waste another word. I took a hard step forward.

Bianca's fake composure shattered instantly. She gasped and ducked behind Dorian.

"Cut it out, Valkyrie!" Dorian shoved my shoulder, forcing me back.

I didn't fight it. Watching him shield her sent acid clawing up my throat.

"Fine."

I dropped my head, bit down on the loose end of the hand wrap with my teeth, and yanked the binding tight around my knuckles with one hand. The velcro tore with a harsh rip.

"I'll do it."

Dorian visibly relaxed. He smoothed the wrinkles in his collar, slipping back into that false composure.

"That's more like it. Just go down tonight like a good girl, and the foreclosure on Harlow gets canceled immediately. Once things cool down, I'll arrange a proper retirement ceremony for you—"

"Don't bother."

I turned, ripped the metal nameplate off my locker door—the symbol marking me as Iron Throne's top fighter.

I didn't even look at it. Just tossed it at Dorian's feet. It clattered across the concrete like scrap metal.

"After tonight," I stared at the doorway, voice arctic, "you, me, and this rotten outfit—we're through. For good."

Without another word, I slammed my shoulder into his and strode out of the locker room.