Pain explodes across my knuckles. We both jump back at the same time, my hand the same shade of red as his blade. It’s a superficial cut, but it’s enough to turn my grip slick if I’m not careful.
I lick the blood off, then roll the knife in my palm.
We circle each other like wolves. Carmine’s men are whooping behind us, launching into raucous stadium chants. Like this is a f*****g football game instead of a duel to the death.
When we clash again, it’s Yuri who pulls back bleeding. “That all you can do?”
He’s trying to provoke me. “You know exactly what I can do.”
“Then f*****g come and do it.”
Once, I would’ve fallen for the taunt. But now, I listen—truly listen—to the words, and the intent behind them becomes obvious.
Pressing the one advantage he has.
I’ve always had strength on
