Crown Of Blood

7

"You—You are dead now!"

The woman's words left her lips like venom, trembling, half-choked with blood. Her hand clutched at her nearly broken jaw as her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. She staggered back, gasping for breath, her voice shaking but fueled by raw hatred.

Her eyes burned into Elena Silva one last time before she turned and bolted toward the shadows of the underground arena. Her palm pressed hard against her mouth to stem the bleeding, but crimson still leaked through her fingers, leaving a dotted trail across the cement floor.

The audience murmured, a ripple of shock washing over them.

But Elena only stood there.

Her chest heaved with shallow breaths, strands of dark hair sticking to the edges of her damp forehead beneath the cap pulled low. Her fists slowly unclenched at her sides, the sting of raw flesh biting into her awareness. She glanced down, eyes locking on her bloodied knuckles.

The pain still tingled—sharp, pulsing—but it wasn't pain that unsettled her. It was the weight of the strike she had thrown. Harder than she intended. The woman's jaw had nearly snapped.

But Elena didn't care for the woman's threats. Threats were just words, hollow echoes in a world where actions ruled. She dusted off her jacket, straightened it with deliberate precision, and tugged her cap lower. She could not afford recognition, not here. Not in this place.

She flexed her hand again, watching her knuckles glow raw under the dim light. She was still studying the ache when a firm grip caught her wrist.

Her breath hitched, her body twisting on instinct, ready to retaliate—until her eyes landed on him.

Josh.

Those familiar chocolate-dark eyes fixed on her with concern, cutting through the chaos around them. His hand was large, steady, and his thumb brushed gently across her bruised skin, trying to soothe what he couldn't erase.

For a second, Elena blinked in surprise. The tenderness, so at odds with the violence of moments ago, slipped under her defenses.

"Weren't you fighting?" she asked, her voice even, almost flat.

Josh didn't answer immediately. His gaze flicked over her face, then to her bleeding knuckles, then around the arena. Elena followed his eyes—and realized something strange.

The fight had stopped.

The roar of fists, the clang of bets being exchanged, the drunken cheer of the men—it was all gone. Silence hung heavy. Every eye in the underground club was now pinned on her... and Josh.

Even the fighters had stilled, pausing mid-round to stare.

The crowd was no longer entertained. They were disturbed.

Josh's voice came low, urgent, meant only for her ears. "We shouldn't be here, Miss."

Elena's brows furrowed. Confusion rippled across her face. Josh—the man who had always been calm, even when chaos broke loose around them—looked uneasy. Nervous, almost.

She tilted her head slightly, searching his eyes for explanation. "Why?"

His grip tightened. His jaw worked as though the words hurt to speak.

"That woman..." He swallowed hard. "She was a member of the Marquez's."

The name crashed into the room like thunder. Elena's chest constricted.

Still, she tilted her head again, feigning ignorance—or perhaps trying to make sense of it.

Josh inhaled sharply, his composure unraveling. His eyes flashed dark with something dangerous. "Miss—how can you not understand? The Marquez's... they are your in-laws."

The words pierced her like daggers.

Her body stiffened, the realization seeping in. Her lungs refused air for a moment as the truth resurfaced with brutal clarity.

The engagement.

The alliance.

The blood-bound chains tying her fate to theirs.

She had forgotten—just for a moment—that she wasn't free. She was the bride promised to the throne bearer of the Marquez empire.

And now, she had just spilled blood belonging to them.

⸻

MEANWHILE

In the velvet-draped silence of the VVIP chamber, three men sat cloaked in shadow.

Gabriel Marquez sat at the head, his posture regal yet suffocating, his presence too heavy for the air itself to carry. He had said nothing all day, his silence a dark storm brewing, his eyes like icy shards that cut through everything they touched.

His elder brothers flanked him—Andre Marquez, the eldest, radiating raw fury and control, and Dante Marquez, the calm strategist, the one who weighed consequences even in chaos.

The silence broke.

"What is her name?"

Gabriel's voice rasped through the air, low and husky, yet carrying the weight of command.

Andre's head snapped up, surprise flickering across his features. Dante's brows lifted, exchanging a glance with his elder brother.

Hours had passed with Gabriel saying nothing. Not a single word. Yet the first time his lips moved—it was to ask about her.

"Elena—" Dante began, but his words were shattered by the door bursting open.

The crash echoed against the walls as a woman stumbled in, sobbing, her steps desperate, her voice broken.

"MASTER!"

Her cry rang through the chamber, blood dripping from her jaw as she collapsed forward.

Andre slammed his fist against the armrest, rising instantly. "Don't you know how to f*****g knock—"

But Dante cut him short, his voice shocked. "Geez, what happened to you?"

Gabriel's eyes, sharp ocean blue, lifted. His gaze locked on the woman, her body trembling, her bloodied hand holding her jaw in place. His frown deepened, his silence chilling.

"Master—someone... someone attacked me!" the woman wailed. Her words cracked as she poured out her story—the humiliation, the strike, the woman in the boxing ring.

Andre's rage roared to life. He shot to his feet, towering, his face darkening with fire.

"Who dared to throw hands upon our people—in our place?" His voice thundered, vibrating the room itself.

It was unthinkable. Their family's name, their dominance, was unquestionable. And yet someone had defiled it—in their own territory.

Dante's calm fractured. His brow furrowed, his jaw set, the gravity of the insult weighing heavily.

Gabriel remained still. But his silence was not passive. It was lethal.

The woman's sobs filled the chamber, but no one comforted her. Not even Dante. She trembled under the oppressive weight of Gabriel's eyes, unable to lift her gaze to his face.

Andre's fury broke the air again. "I'll find them. I'll rip them apart with my own hands!"

"I'll go, brother," Dante interjected, pushing back his chair, urgency in his movements. He had to act before the insult grew further.

But Gabriel's voice, deep and husky, cut through them both.

"No."

The word silenced the chamber instantly.

Dante froze mid-step. Andre turned sharply toward his youngest brother.

Gabriel leaned forward, his elbows resting on the armrests, his gaze molten, his voice carrying the weight of death.

"I'll go."

The statement lingered like smoke, heavy, undeniable.

For when Gabriel Marquez moved, the world burned.