His breath oozed across my bare neck, and I cringed to feel it, hot and damp.

“This is no trouble, bella. This is only foreplay.”

I clamped my lips shut on a groan. Great. A psycho. That figures. No dumb jocks for Faythe. I got the crazy bastard who gets off on causing pain.

Suddenly Miguel’s hands were gone, along with his knee. My left arm dropped to my side, and fresh pain shot through my shoulder, radiating down my arm.

Behind me, Miguel shuffled backward three steps. Convinced it was a trick, I didn’t move. He took two more steps, and I turned slowly to face him, cradling my injured arm.

His eyes shone. “Come on, bella. Come get me. If you win, you get the key. If I win, I get you. However I want.”

Now, why did that sound so familiar?

It was almost exactly the same bet that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. But this time I wasn’t even tempted. “You’l have to kil me first,” I said, focusing on his eyes, letting the anticipation glinting in them fuel my anger.

“And you me. Te atrevo darme.”

Wonderful, a death match on my first day behind bars. Some girls have al the luck.

Rolling my head on my shoulders, I took inventory of my various aches and pains as I stretched my neck. My right cheek stung, and my knee was still bruised from my ride in the van. And my left arm was no use at al , possibly for a very long time. Fortunately, my right arm stil worked, and there were always my feet, assuming I could keep from breaking any toes. And as a last resort, I could scratch and bite.

Too bad I hadn’t been able to pull off the partial Shift. I could real y have used a few more inches of teeth.

Eyeing Miguel warily, I struck my fighting pose, both fists raised with my knees bent and my feet apart, just like Daddy had taught me. Wel , sort of like Daddy taught me. This time my left fist was low and stiff, held against my side for stability.

Miguel watched me in amusement, an ugly grin warping his mouth. I was entertaining him, giving him a laugh. And that pissed me off.

I lunged forward, hugging my wounded arm to my stomach. My right wrist rotated as it flew, smashing head-on into that revolting grin. I don’t think he even saw me move.

Miguel stumbled backward into the bars, slapping one hand to his mouth to cover a split lip and two broken teeth. Blood leaked from between his fingers to drip on the floor. He gaped at me, eyes wide in shock and anger. Apparently he wasn’t expecting me to throw any actual punches, which wasn’t surprising. Most tabbies had no reason to learn to fight; they had fathers, boyfriends and enforcers to protect them. But my father thought I should be capable of my own defense, and I’d never been happier in my life to admit that he was right.

I shook my hand, surprised by how much it hurt. I’d punched Ethan countless times and never injured myself. Of course, I’d never real y tried to hurt him. But I meant to hurt Miguel.

Watching him warily between two fingers, I inspected the damage to my hand.

Three of my knuckles were cut and smeared with blood. I flicked my tongue across them, tasting. Some of it was mine, but most of it was his. I’d drawn first blood.

Yeah me.

Unfortunately, the surprised phase passed pretty quickly, for both of us. “You crazy bitch!” Miguel spat, spraying pink saliva across the concrete.

I frowned. Why am I a bitch every time I draw blood?

He wiped his stained hand on his jeans. Starting forward, his hands were curled into fists. He looked like a deranged boxer, eyes blazing with fury and barely focused. I’d final y fazed him, and anger was getting in the way of his concentration.

It was about time something went my way.

I dodged him to the right, jumping onto the mattress. “What’s wrong?” I asked, lunging to the left in time to evade another blow. “I thought this was your idea of foreplay.”

“He meant he likes to hit girls,” Abby said. From the corner of my eye, I saw her standing at the front of her cage, brown eyes wide and eager.

Miguel glanced back at her, fist raised. “You shut up, niña,” he shouted, shaking his fist at Abby. He must have been pretty shaken to take his eyes off an opponent. Or maybe he stil didn’t consider me a serious threat. How insulting. “I’ll deal with you when I’m finished with—ugh!” I cut off his threat with a kick to the groin.

It wasn’t a great kick. For a great kick, I’d have needed a pair of shoes with hard toes. But I’ve been assured by several of the men in my life that just about any kick to the crotch is pretty effective.

Miguel bent over, clutching himself as he turned half away from me. Rotating my hips, I whipped my right leg around again, kicking him in the face. I was careful to use the inside of my foot to protect my bare toes. The awkward angle blunted my force, but it worked. He fel over backward with what I hoped was a broken nose. I couldn’t tel , because his hands were cupping the injury. But my foot was pretty sore, and slick with enough blood to threaten my balance.

I wiped the bottom of my foot on the edge of the mattress, briefly considering the victory dance Ethan taught me the year he played peewee football. But then Miguel groaned, and I dove for the key instead. I sat on his right leg with my knee pressing into his injured groin, forcing my fingers into his pocket. It was too tight. I couldn’t reach the key.

Determined, I pushed my hand in farther. The tip of my middle finger brushed something hard and smooth. The key. I wiggled my fingers, but only pushed it in deeper. I shifted forward for a better angle. And then I made my critical mistake: I took my eyes off his face.