Bethan heard a gasp that turns to an affronted huff at the olive branch wilting and then burning as she turned back to her corner. Luka retreated and held onto the post in his corner, stretching his hamstring with the other hand while they waited for the bell.

The ref grumbled something to their backs, waved his hands loosely and ducked under the ropes and away to the darkness at the bar. This was not a club that cared enough to impose rules on its fighters: They were to keep it interesting and reserve the action for the intervals between bells. Winner would leave with lots of cash in a nondescript envelope and the good graces of the hard boys and wiseguys who were getting chatty and drunk ringside.

The bell sang and Luka turned, bringing his hands up and lowering his head between them. He squinted at Bethan and closeed, throwing out slow punch from the edge of his reach to see how she moves.