My soul burns with discomfort. I should be seated with my own people, yet I am now bound to the Celts. My loyalties are torn. Yet, in this moment, I wish Cian would fight back, even though I know he can’t, and won’t. Not really.
The fighter called Little Italy has numerous fresh bruises forming, one side of his face speckled red, but he’s in much better shape than Cian at this point.
My husband takes another hit, stumbles back several feet, but remains standing.Bastardo testardo.
I’m beginning to feel remorse over my insistence on coming tonight. The heavy, metallic scent of blood hanging in the air makes me nauseous, and I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.
How much more can Cian take?
Every time he falls, he stubbornly returns to his feet, though each time is slower, more sluggish, than the last. He’s gotten his fair share of hits in, his opponent will be hurting tomorrow, that’s for sure.
But now his swings are laden with exhaustion, it’s clear in every line of his overtaxed muscles that he’s spent. Why doesn’t he just stay down? What more is there to prove? Especially when he knows he’s going to purposefully lose this fight in the end.
I’m starting to suspect that my husband might be a masochist. Does he feel the need to punish himself for some past wrong? Or is he punishing me for my harsh words earlier? If that’s the case, I’m ready to tap out.
Come on, Cian, stop this now. Please. I’m begging you.
His opponent delivers an especially wicked right hook, so powerful that blood sprays over the audience on that side of the cage. Which only has them cheering louder.
I cringe with disgust.
Looking to Wolfe, I ask, “Can’t you put an end to this?”
“Nope.” He glowers. “If he has any teeth left after this, I’m going to knock them out. Stubborn fucker. This should have been long over by now. Those Italian bastards are getting far more out of this than they deserve.”
I quickly glance at him, but his gaze remains fixed on Cian. I haven’t forgotten about his threats to kill me if I hurt Cian. Hopefully, he doesn’t blame me for our current circumstances.Though who else could be at fault? I’m the reason Cian’s in that ring and taking this beating.
Guilt slams into my chest.
“I can’t watch another second of this. I need to leave. Now.” I stand. Wolfe gets up too, muttering curses under his breath as he scowls.
“We can’t just walk out of here,” he protests, but I ignore him.
We can and we will.
“Leaving gives the wrong impression.” He sounds annoyed.
I don’t care ifmi famigliasees me as weak. I can’t watch another second of this carnage.
As soon as we near the exit, a raucous cheer shakes the walls. I glance back to find Cian passed out, lying in the dead man’s blood from earlier. His opponent raises his bloody fists in the air and the Italians go wild.
Finally, it’s over.
Instead of relief, I’m furious. Turning back, I march toward the fighting platform. I have some choice words formi Irlandese—once he’s conscious.
Gesturing at a blood-covered, unconscious Cian, I turn to Wolfe. “Will you get him out of there and bring him home? As soon as he’s awake, I’m going to kill him.”
“You’ll have to get in line, sorceress.” Wolfe grumbles, but does as I ask. He and two other men haul Cian from the ring and get him into the car.
I cradle his swollen, brutalized face in my lap. Blood smears my clothing, ruining a nice silk dress, but I don’t care. It’s an insignificant casualty of this evening. Much like the man who died in that arena for a crime he didn’t commit, all to preserve a much more important peace treaty.
We ride in silence as I fume. Cian has the audacity to snore. I glare at him, unamused.
Once home, they get him out of the car and upstairs to bed, where we assess his wounds. Wolfe had the foresight to have the doctor on standby. The older man quickly appears when we decide that Cian needs more than ice and bandages, but stitches too. Not to mention, to make sure he doesn’t have a damn concussion after all the hits he took to his head.
None of this helps lighten my mood.
Wolfe helps me give Cian a sponge bath, removing the majority of the blood and sweat from his skin. It’s hard to tell how much of the blood is Cian’s and how much belonged to the dead man.
