“TWO!...”
The referee’s hand was about to slap the mat for the third time when Ambre’s legs kicked out, and Matilda felt the shift, her bridge breaking as the Frenchwoman shoved free.
“Tch… you still breathe…”
Matilda muttered under her breath, rising up slowly, brushing sweat-drenched strands of red hair from her face. She looked down at Ambre, who lay curled and gasping, her body wrecked from the triple suplex—but not broken.
Not yet.
Matilda’s chest heaved. Her eyes were wild. And then—
“RAAAAAAAAAHHH!!”
She let out a fierce, barbaric roar, arms stretched wide, calling to the crowd and to the gods of the fight, shaking the very ropes with the force of her cry.
The crowd erupted, knowing exactly what that meant.
The Tribal Slam was coming.
Matilda turned and loomed over Ambre, grabbing her by the wrist and shoulder and yanking her back up—rough, but not reckless. She wanted the crowd to see it. To feel it.
“Zis ends now, schätzchen,”
she growled through gritted teeth, slinging Ambre’s limp form across her broad shoulders into a fireman’s carry.
Her arms locked around Ambre’s thighs and neck. She took a few dramatic steps toward center ring, spinning slowly, showcasing the finality of the move to the crowd.
One more breath. One more second.
She dipped slightly at the knees, about to toss Ambre into the sky and twist into the finishing slam.
But Matilda’s arms weren’t as tight as they had been earlier. Her back still burned from the Pearl’s Crusher. Her stance, just a little heavy.
If Ambre had anything left—any burst of strength, any flicker of fight—this was the moment to reverse it, to slip free or twist the momentum.
Otherwise… she was going to be planted hard.
Spoiler
