There it is.
Yes.
God, that’s what I needed. I feel like a shark tasting blood as adrenaline surges through me.
We trade blows in the center of the ring, neither of us backing down. My knuckles split open on his teeth. His fist connects with my ribs, and something cracks—not broken, but close.
The pain is clarifying. Pure. I goddamnwelcomeit.
I’m not thinking about Erin anymore. Not thinking about those defiant eyes, that smart mouth, the way her pulse felt under my?—
Tommy’s fist crashes into my jaw, and I stumble back against the ropes.
Focus. Fuckingfocus.
He charges in for the kill, and I let him come. At the last second, I drop low, grab him around the middle, and use his own momentum to flip him. One swift move and his back hits the canvas hard enough to bounce. The air goes out of him in a whoosh.
I’m on him before he can take a breath. Knees pinning his arms, fists raining down. It feels like a symphony.
Left, right, left, right. Methodical. Brutal.
His face becomes a mask of blood, and he’s trying to buck me off, but I’m locked on. Immovable.
Erin’s face swims in my vision for a moment. In this ring, I don’t have to pretend.
This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been.
Strip it all away and I’m just a bare-knuckled fuckin’ McCarthy from Ballyhock who knows how to hurt people.
“Yield,” I growl, my fist cocked back for another strike.
Tommy’s eyes roll, unfocused. He’s done.
“He yields!” the ref shouts. “He yields, McCarthy!” He grabs my shoulder. “He’s done!”
I stare down at Tommy’s ruined face for another long moment, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my knuckles. Every muscle in my body is screaming. My hands are destroyed, and I can already feel tomorrow’s bruises forming.
But the fire’s burned down to a low ember.
Finally.
Finally, I can breathe.
I climb off him and let the ref raise my arm. The crowd’s absolutely mental, chanting my name like I’m some kind of god, some kind of savior. “McCARthy! McCARthy! McCARthy!” Money’s changing hands everywhere—bets being settled, new ones being made for my next fight. I don’t fuckin’ care. I didn’t come here to be worshipped like a goddamn hero.
I spit blood onto the canvas and turn toward the ropes, ready to climb out, ready to disappear back into the night?—
And I freeze.
Becauseshe’sthere.
How?She isn’t supposed to be here.
Erin is standing at the edge of the crowd, partially hidden in the shadow of a support beam. Her face is pale in the strobing lights, making her look almost ghostly. Still wearing that same outfit she wore to the club, minus the purple band. Her eyes are wide, locked on me—on my bloodied knuckles, my split lip, my bare chest, and all the scars I carry like medals of dishonor.
She’s seeing exactly who I am. No polish, no pretense, no expensive suits or charming smiles. Just violence in its purest form. Just the beast she’s being forced to marry.
Our eyes meet across the chaos, and I watch something flicker across her face—something I wish I could see closer, something I need to understand. Is it fear? Disgust? The horror of realizing what she’s trapped herself into?
