“This is real! From Birmingham, we have a monster of a man, a fighter who’s gone fifty rounds with forty-six wins, two losses and two.... Well, let’s say he’s not afraid to end a fight thehardway.”
A huge roar goes up and I feel sick, tugging on Talon’s sleeve. “When he says the hard way, does he mean what I think he means?”
He’s looking uncharacteristically grim. “Aye.”
The emcee’s winding up again. “Please welcome the Birmingham Butcher!”
He’s not kidding. The man stalking toward the cage looks like a bear who learned to walk on his hind legs. His scarred face is expressionless, like he doesn’t hear the screaming crowd or he just does not care. His wrapped hands are clenching and unclenching in his fingerless gloves like he’s visualizing them wrapped around his opponent’s neck.
“I don’t understand this.” I keep looking around us, trying to spot Michael or Mason. “Why are we here?”
“Aaaand in the Red Corner, the most vicious fighter The Underworld’s seen in an age, he is undefeated after forty-three rounds in the ring though tonight, he might just have met his match. He has no nickname, he dinnae need it. Please welcome The MacTavish!”
“Oh,fuck me,”Talon blurts.
Mason enters the room, ignoring the frenzied pitch of the cheering audience. He’s barefoot, wearing shorts with all his tattoos on display. He looks like an alternate reality version of my husband, gracefully leaping up into the ring.
He’sThe MacTavish?
“Oh, fuck me is right,” I whisper.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
In which Afton “gets it.”
Afton…
This is insane.
Well, or I’m insane because that can’t be my cold, buttoned-up husband standing barefoot in that ring, his feet planted while his enormous, hairy opponent bounces eagerly.
Michael’s positioned just outside of the ring in Mason’s corner, arms folded, mouth set in a grim line that’s scaring me even more. His glance flicks over to me briefly and back to Mason.
“Stop this. You have to stop this.” I’m shaking Talon’s arm like he’s going to spring from his seat and close it all down through sheer force of will.
“I canna.” His expression is just as grim as Michael’s. “The crowd would tear us apart. They want blood.”
The bell rings and the Butcher comes roaring out of his corner, heading for Mason like a freight train. He’s huge, even bigger than Mason with long, ape-like arms and his fists are the size of dinner plates. One comes slamming down towards Mason’s shoulder, who makes an elegant pivot on his left foot, spinning out of the way and he drives his elbow into the Butcher’s kidney.
A deafening cheer goes up from the crowd, even the expensively dressed men and women on the front row are straining forward, faces red, screaming at the fighters.
I’m in a parallel universe. That’s it. I’ve stepped sideways into another world because there is no way this is my cold, composed husband. Even that brief moment of brutality when he beat that man for holding the knife to my throat was nothing compared to the stone-faced man sliding under the Butcher’s punch and landing one in the center of his chest. Even over the shouting, I can hear the man’s breath getting punched out in an explosive “oof!”
They’re moving around each other, looking for weaknesses, one arm back ready to punch and the other stretched out. They’re gauging the punching distance. I know this move, trying to see how close they need to be to land a knockout blow.
“Are you kidding? Mason’s enormous but look at that asshole! He’s got the wingspan of a bald eagle!”
Just then the Butcher's long, hairy arms get under Mason’s guard and he tries to slam him down to the ground. Mason struggles for balance, planting his feet and looping an arm around the giant’s neck, throwing him over his head and onto the mat.
The woman next to me is beautifully attired in a red silk dress, pristine, maybe a doctor or an executive in the real world. The champagne flute she’s clutching snaps in half and the alcohol lands on me as she impatiently shakes off the shards of glass. She doesn’t take her eyes off the ring.
Mason delivers a brutal kick to the Butcher’s ribs before he can roll back onto his feet and even Talon shouts, “Yes!” with the rest of the crowd. He twists and turns striking with a fist, an elbow, jumping gracefully up and kicking the Butcher in the face, knocking him down. His movements are oddly beautiful, seamless and every strike meant to disable his opponent.
“Stay down stay down stay down…” I’m chanting mindlessly, desperate for this to end.It’s sweaty and terrifying and there’s already blood smeared on the mat. Mason could get hurt. He could die. That’s what the announcer was hinting at. That’s what these people are shouting for.
The Butcher rolls back onto his feet, surprisingly nimble for such a hulking thug and he’s charging back at Mason, leaping up and kicking him in the chest and my husband goes flying back against the netting. Jamming my fist against my mouth, I smother my scream.
Then, Mason looks up. Not at me. Not even at the crowd. And he grins a bloody grin around his mouthguard and whirls around, blocking the Butcher’s swing. He leaps up, one foot on the man’s bent leg and smashes his other knee into the Butcher’s jaw in a lithe swing.
