They’re not just watching, they’restarving,drooling,and I hate how I get it. Carrson has a lethal, dark allure to him, as he stands there shirtless, covered in sweat and blood with his chest heaving, his shoulders broad and carved with muscle.
He’s beautiful in the most dangerous, dark way.
The kind of beauty that makes you want to taste it even if it might kill you.
Fingers pressed to the glass, knuckles white, our breath caught in our throats, the sisters and I lean closer to watch the spectacle unfold.
Sampson faces Carrson again, his lips pulled back into a ferocious grin. It’s chilling, full of malice.
Carrson ignores Sampson. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, like he’s warming up. Likenowthe fight really begins. Then, he does something strange.
He smiles.
Not the smirking, arrogant grin I’ve come to expect, but something happier, almost gleeful. A flash of feral joy. Like he’s having the time of his life out there.
Then he moves.
Rapid. Precise.
A low sweep of the leg. Sampson totters. Carrson drives an elbow into his kidney. He stands tall and punches, fist landing in the center of Sampson’s throat. Sampson lurches, flailing, but Carrson’s already moved behind him, hooking an arm around his neck.
It turns brutal.
Sampson throws himself backward, slamming Carrson to the ground and trapping him beneath his massive frame. He rolls over, keeping Carrson pinned. He raises his fist and drives it straight into Carrson’s face. Blood splatters, running from Carrson’s nose. Carrson flings his legs, twists his torso, and they roll, dirt flying, fists flying, bodies colliding with raw, ugly force. There’s nothing elegant about it now, just fury, sweat, and blood.
It’s terrifying. Impossible to look away from.
The kind of violence that feels ancient. Ritualistic. Like something older than language, olderthan reason.
“They’re gonna kill each other,” one girl breathes as Sampson slowly rises off Carrson and stands looking down at him with disdain.
“Carrson’s bleeding,” someone else says. “Look. His eye. His nose.”
I take in the damage, the blood and bruising. My heart hammers like I’m the one out there, fighting for my life. I try to tell myself to calm down, that this has nothing to do with me. That Carrson’s cruel. Controlling. A monster in pretty packaging.
It’s a lie.
Because when Sampson lands another hit that sends Carrson’s head rocking to the side, and he lays there on the ground unmoving, I feel something twist in my chest.
Get up, I plead, not realizing I’m holding my breath.
Carrson does. He gets to his knees, then his feet. Slowly, he stands like a phoenix rising from the ashes. Blood drips from his eye, his nose, a split lip. One eye is already swelling shut, but his hands, they’re steady.
He squares his shoulders and adjusts his footing.
He strikes.
It’s crazy fast. A jab to the face, a knee to the gut, then a brutal blow to the jaw that makes Sampson list sideways.
Carrson doesn’t hesitate. He follows closely as Sampson sways, clutching his face, his jaw. Carrson jumps into the air, catches Sampson by the shoulders, and slams his opponent to the ground. He’s on top of a dazed Sampson now. Carrson pins him, forearm braced across Sampson’s throat, his muscles shaking with effort. He pushes that arm into Sampson’s neck, cutting off his airway. They stay like that for several long, tense seconds until Sampson finally taps out.
It’s over.
The brothers erupt with shouts. Applause. Laughter. So loud we hear it from up high where we watch.
The girls around me are practically swooning.
“I told you he’d win,” one says, fanning herself with a notebook. “He’s so fucking hot when he fights.”
