•R• Prologue

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‼️ Warning, R rated
scenes ahead! ‼️

Crack! A punch to the ribs knocks the wind out of you.
A punch to the face scrambles your vision.

And double vision? That's a one-way ticket to concussion protocol.
I'm probably on the edge of a concussion. And that? That could sideline me for months.
Which would be a damn shame—because I need the cash I get from fighting in this arena. I crave it.

I duck another punch from my opponent.
He's at least two inches taller. All muscle, no fat.
His face, though? Looks like it's hiding lemon balls under the skin—tight, round, begging to be popped.

My coach calls time, probably realizing I can't even see straight—much less stand steady on my feet.

Yes, I'm fighting a guy bigger, taller, and stronger than me.
But I've fought bigger.
And I've won.

I'm the Queen of the ring. Have been for five years.
And if this brute thinks he can steal my title, he's deluding himself.
He'll learn what it means to go up against the Cobra Queen.

Fuck rules.
I want him on the ground, bleeding and begging for the punches to stop.
Begging for mercy.

He gave me double vision?
Cute.

That piece of meat's about to learn something real fast:
No one crosses me.
Not this idiot.
Not anyone.

Not even my own parents.

The second I stand and leave my corner, he charges at me.

I try to sidestep—fail.

So I slam my elbow into the back of his head.
He stumbles, grabbing the ropes to stay upright.

I glance back once, then turn to face the audience with a knowing smirk.

They know.
The ones screaming and laughing—they know exactly what's coming.

And I love it.
The adrenaline. The chaos. The high of it all.

The cheering hits like a drug.
The applause? Pure pheromones.

I'm not just close to victory.

I am victory.

I can taste it on the tip of my tongue—
Blood, mixed with sweet, sharp victory.

I feel his movement.
The man's got no surprise tactics.

I turn just in time, drop low, and sweep his legs out from under him.
He falls.

I drive my elbow into his throat.
He gasps.

I keep punching.
Again. And again.

Call me reckless.
Call me heartless.

But no one crosses me.
Not this idiot.
Not anyone.

Pathetic.

The man was swept away by the medical team a few minutes after I was announced the winner.

I wiped the blood and sweat from my neck, chin, and nose before heading toward the showers.

Five fights this week.
All five—mine.

There were some good contenders, sure.
But that's all they are.

Players.
They come.
They lose.
They go.

"COBRA!"
"QUEEN!"
"COBRA!"
"QUEEN!"

The audience roars outside as I shower.

I scrub off the blood and sweat, peel away the bruises with every drop of water.
Then I tuck my mask into the side pocket of my duffel bag and zip it shut.

Clean. Calm. Invisible.

I leave the locker room and make my way to the bar.

No one notices me.
No one knows me.

That's the beauty of the mask.
The power of a name no one can trace.

To them, I'm just a woman sitting at the bar.
Sipping her drink.
Alone.

Simple.

And yet...
I can still hear them.
My fans.

Screaming my name.

Jacks—the bartender always on shift when I fight—slides me a whiskey, neat.
No words. Just routine.

I take a slow, lingering sip.
Let the burn settle in my throat.

And that's when I spot him.

A certain someone I never expected to see here.
Someone who doesn't look like he'd even stomach the taste of an underground fighting ring.

Interesting.
Very interesting.

I was feeling particularly like an adrenaline junkie.
And I needed a release—
One that wouldn't be eased by the vibrations of a cylinder-shaped object lodged between my legs.

I craved something else.
A particular taste.
Heat.
Movement.

Him.

It's not like I'll need him again.

I finish my drink in one sip and make my way toward him—
That man.
The one who shouldn't belong here but somehow does.
The one who might just do.

His eyes match the sky on a rainy day.
Stormy. Watching me with a hunger I've seen before—
But never quite like this.
I smile. Soft. Dangerous.
Like I've just marked him as my prey.

And now?
He's exactly where I want him.

"Tell me, handsome..."
I whisper into his ear, my fingers sliding down his torso.
His suit is rough beneath my touch—
But not as hard as what I find pressing beneath it.

"Where can we be alone?"

"Fuck, baby, you're fast," he growls, breath hot against my skin.

I'm already wet with the thought of what's to come.

"My name is—"

I press a finger to his lips.
"I don't care," I say. My eyes locked on his. "Just tell me—where?"

"There's an office," he murmurs. "It's so very fuckable."

His lips are just inches from mine.

And I've never felt this kind of desire from a man before.
Not like this.
Not this feral.
Not this good.

Oh, this sex is going to be so good.

His eyes flick toward the crowd, lingering just a second too long on the people screaming my name.

Obviously, he doesn't know. That's the point of the mask.

"Fuck it. Fine. You'll do," he mutters.

He said that like I wouldn't throw him out if he disappointed me.

Yes, of course I'll do. And so will you.

He leads me to an office.
An office? Cute. This is where secretaries fuck their married bosses. Not where I'd come to cum.

I roll my eyes as he starts to strip.

"Kneel," I order, voice like glass.

His eyes widen—one part disbelief, two parts turned on.

"Did I stutter?"

He drops. Just like that. Still dressed, but on his knees, looking up like he's waiting to be used.

"Ten minutes," I say, stepping closer. "Make me cum with that mouth, or I'll find someone who can."

There's a flicker in his expression—not fear. Amusement? Challenge?

"Yes, ma'am," he murmurs, low and sinful, like he's choosing to obey.

That catches me off guard. Just for a second.

Then his mouth is on me. And fuck, this one's different.

The sounds pouring out of me are unhinged—loud, messy, almost irritating.
But his tongue? It's fucking divine.

When I look down, I meet his eyes—steel gray, locked on me like I'm some intricate equation he's solving.

That stare.

It makes me shiver. Not from weakness. From temptation.

"Fuck," I mutter. "This isn't good. Not good at all."

His tongue is damned talented. Too talented.

Release hits me so hard my knees nearly buckle. When I step back, his mouth is glistening — ruined with me.

"Why don't you kneel now," he says.

But that's not a suggestion. That's a command.

A command aimed at me.

Has delusion ever looked so cocky?

I slide my soaked panties down my legs, step out of them, and toss them into the corner.

"I don't kneel."

I turn, leaving him in that office.

But as I walk out, something foreign lingers beneath my skin. A jittery hum.

Longing.

Fuck.

"A woman who is both the monster and the myth." ~ HHS