Fuck.
What the hell was that?
I had no fucking clue why I was talking as if I had control, as if I had some plan beyond this compulsive instinct in my chest that saidprotect. Or destroy. I couldn’t even tell which it was. All I knew was that something in Lyric had gotten under my skin, and now, I was standing between him and Enzo as if I’d drawn a line I couldn’t erase.
Enzo’s eyes widened.
“It’s Robbie, man…” Enzo’s voice was low, but it vibrated with the threat of violence barely held in check.
“I get that, but he’s…” I waved at Lyric. As fragile as a baby? Maybe?
Enzo stabbed at my arm, eyes burning. “And, if he had anything to do with what happened to Robbie—if he even knew and didn’t say something—then I will rip him apart, and nothing you do will stop me.”
“Mine,” I snapped.
Lyric gasped in pain, and I didn’t move. The deadly focus was still in Enzo’s eyes. Not dangerous to me, but to someone like Lyric, already crackedopen and possibly terrified? I stayed where I was, still unsure whether I was a protector, executioner, or something else entirely.
Killian got involved then, putting a hand on Enzo’s shoulder and tugging him back, firm but calm. The asshole lawyer raised an eyebrow at me, amused in that way that always made me want to punch him or laugh—sometimes both.
“How about we ask him some questions when he’s actually conscious, or do you want witnesses to see you piss on the patient to mark your territory?” Killian asked.
I glanced back at Lyric to see his breathing heavy. He wasn’t unconscious, but he was screwing his eyes shut to the room. Somehow, he looked worse than when he’d arrived.
I didn’t bother to hide my scowl. “Fuck you, asshole.”
“Charming as always, Mr. Villareal,” Killian said, giving Jamie a little shove toward the door and tugging Enzo with him. “Let the big, brave cage fighter have his broody little breakdown in peace.”
“Fuck you!” I repeated, louder this time.
“I’m just being observant,” Killian replied. “You looked as if you were a second away from throwingyourself on the floor and growling like a guard dog with rabies.”
“Better than looking as if I walked out of a boardroom to cosplay a mob boss.”
The second the words left my mouth, Killian’s smirk deepened, arrogant as hell. And I felt it—that twist in my gut, hot and sudden. Every muscle in my body tensed, my fists clenching without permission. It took everything I had not to lunge, not to let the fury boil over and spill out. Violence came too easily. It sat there, waiting. Wanting. I’d spent years learning to hold it back, to collect it inside me until I stepped into the cage, but right then, I wanted to crack something open -- preferably Killian’s smug fucking face -- and hope Jamie didn’t kill me before I could get there.
I hated that the slick fucker could get to me with so little effort and that he knew he could. That he poked all of us, not only because he loved the reaction, but because somewhere deep down, he thought I’d never bite hard enough to draw his blood. At least not while Jamie looked up to him and needed him more than he’d ever needed me. It used to be my job to ground Jamie with a word or a touch. But that was Killian’s role now.
And damn, that stung more than I wanted toadmit. Every day, Jamie seemed a step further away from me. A little less mine. A little more Killian’s.
But also—fuck, maybe it was better this way. I didn’t have to worry about Jamie anymore. Didn’t have to hold him up or drag him back. He had someone else for that.
That was a good thing. Right?
Maybe he was right about me acting as if I were claiming Lyric as territory. Maybe not. But right then, I wanted to wipe that smug grin from Killian’s face more than I wanted to breathe.
I clenched my jaw and turned away before I said something I couldn’t take back—or did something I couldn’t explain. Because I’d been here before. Fists flying, knuckles split open, a man screaming through broken teeth. I’d thrived on the snap of cartilage, the shock in their eyes when they realized I wasn’t just fighting—I was enjoying. That monster still lived in me, coiled tight and ready, and it wouldn’t take much to let him out. One more smug smile. One more shove. One more reason.
The need for something to take the edge off was acid in my blood, burning through every thought. A couple of pills and the fury would fade—dull the noise, quell the shaking in my hands, make me human again.
No, what I really needed was time in the cage with a fighter who made me work for it. I needed it more than I could breathe. Two days after my last bout -- and I was still bruised and sore -- and the craving gnawed and writhed under my skin, feeding on every second I wasn’t bleeding or throwing punches. I was desperate. Twitchy.
Fuck.
My body didn’t know what to do with this stillness, with fear and guilt and heat swirling in my blood. I needed the slam of bone against bone. The taste of sweat and rage. I needed someone strong, someone who could hit back. I needed to lose myself in violence until the only thing left was pain that I understood.
I needed to burn it out before I did something I couldn’t walk away from.
I heard Lyric groan, and I turned to meet his gaze steadily, seeing the dead expression in his eyes, which indicated he wasn’t scared by the altercation.
