It is at this point that I begin to realize how monumentally witless I’ve been. The odds of this confrontation were never in my favor. There are five friends with him, now that I bother to count. Six against one was never going to be a fair fight. And it was never going to be anything but a fight. And not to mention the enforcers Doña Esmeralda has on hand to deal with unruly folk like yours truly.

Oh well. We’re here now. Might as well commit.

I throw the first punch. Sebastian, in all of his shining arrogance, doesn’t even attempt to sidestep it. Perhaps he assumes I’m too drunk to hit my mark. Oh, little does he know. My fist connects with his face, and the shock of it trembles up my arm. A thrill runs through me at this victory—however minor—until the reality of my situation sets in. I put my entire weight behind that punch. All of it. Every morsel of my person. And there’s nothing left to hold me upright. My feet scramble for purchase on the rug but it’s no use. I pitch forward, heading right toward Rosalita. She looks like she’s going to try to catch me (God bless her) but someone beats her to the punch. A man grabs my sleeve, whirling me about. A fist slams against my face. I don’t see who that fist is attached to. I don’t need to. It doesn’t matter.

The blow lands heavy and hard. Sparks burst across my vision right before everything goes hazy. The second blow hurts just as bad. So does the third. And the fourth. The fifth one less so but I think that’s just because I’m slowly losing consciousness. Or maybe dying.

Really, who can tell these days?

Sebastian himself never lays a finger on me. I catch a glimpse of him between his two friends. He’s leaning back against the mantel, one leg crossed over the other at the ankles, a bemused look on his face despite the bruise I know is forming on it. The type to let others do his dirty work, then. I see how it is.

I’m spared by one of Esmeralda’s burly guards. He pulls the noble prick off me (I didn’t catch who it was, not that it matters really, if you’ve met one, you’ve met ’em all), and I lie there for a moment, dazed. The pain is there, persistent. It’ll hurt worse when I’m sober, that’s for damn sure. But that’s not the feeling that dominates my thoughts in this particular moment.

I wish I was a better person than I am. I wish I wasn’t such a mess. I wish I wasn’t so selfish.

But I’m not a better person. I wanted the fight. I wanted the pain. I wanted the blood.