Sweat runs down my back.
It’s so hot in here. Hot and terrifying. I’ve seen boxing once or twice on television. Men with large gloves and quick feet, brightly lit arenas.
This is nothing like that.
The roar of the crowd is a physical thing, energy vibrating up through my body. The fear pulsing through my body has morphed into fascinated terror. Where the hell have I ended up?
Rafe is inside a crudely constructed cage.
Fighting.
The opponent must be his height, but at least fifteen years older and several pounds heavier. There’s a cruel smile on his lips. But Rafe’s face is not smiling. He looks focused, with barely a flicker of emotion showing. He’s faster than the larger man. They circle each other, but soon, blows start raining down between them.
I knot my hands together to keep them from shaking.
Is this how he got the scar? The long one down his torso?
Rafe gets a solid punch to the ribs, and through all thenoise, I hear his faint exhale of pain. Then they’re moving again.
I don’t understand what people are screaming at them. Who are they cheering for? Why is Rafe doing this?
Their fight becomes a flurry of movement. Sharp movements and quick legs, and neither of them is pulling their punches. They’rehurtingeach other. Rafe takes a punch to his face, and my stomach drops out. It doesn’t seem to stop. How do I get it to stop?
And then my heart gives out. Fabrizio gets a hit in, right to Rafe’s low abdomen, and he nearly keels over.
Shit. I’m halfway up out of my seat?—
But then Rafe kicks out, and he knees Fabrizio right in the groin. Was that his plan? To absorb a punch in order to get an opportunity?
Fabrizio falters, groaning. And Rafe moves. He twists around, felling the man to the ground. He locks his arms and legs around the other man, and the room falls quiet in anticipation.
Rafe asks something in gruff Italian. When there’s no response, he repeats it loudly. The scent of sweat and smoke hangs heavy in the air, and my hands are clasped so tight in my lap that my nails leave little half-moons.
Fabrizio taps the mat.
Everyone erupts in a roar of applause. Rafe rolls away from the other man, who remains on the ground, and gets up.
I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s breathing hard, blood on his knuckles. That was hard, fast and dirty. I look at his chest, his torso, the gleaming scar, his thighs. That’s where he’s gotten all the bruises from. He’ll have more after tonight.
Why does he do this?
A man takes Rafe’s wrist and lifts his hand up high. Rafe calls something in Italian, and the people around me whistle and call back. Whoever he just beat, it’s clear it wasn’t what the crowd expected.
Rafe walks out of the open cage door and pushes through the crowd to me. My hands start shaking again.
“Come. We’re leaving,” he says. And it’shisvoice, his deep, articulate voice, and I’m used to that. It’s everything else about him right now that I’m not used to. He holds out a hand. “Come with me?”
I hesitate for a second before I put my hand in his.
His skin is hot to the touch and wrapped in tape. It must be to protect his knuckles. He keeps me close as we walk through the crowd of curious eyes.
Rafe pulls me into a small room to the side, barely larger than a closet. He releases me and walks to a duffel bag in the corner. His movements are slower now, without a crowd.
He grabs a water bottle and drains it.
My hands are shaking again. “What was that?” The words are angry, but they don’t come out that way. They sound pleading.Explain this to me.
Make it make sense.
