“I doubt she could find it,” another man calls.
More laughter.
I need to get back out there and watch the fight, so I turn and keep my eyes on the man’s swollen face as I approach him. “Let me check that cut under your eye.”
He waves me off. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just need a shower and a shot of whiskey.” He turns dismissively and heads to the showers.
“Fine,” I say, anxious to get back to the current fight. If the asshole wants a scar, that’s his choice. I push my way back through the crowd to stand beside Sully.
He glances down at me. I feel him studying my face. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Killian can hold his own.”
“I’m not worried,” is on the tip of my tongue, but that’s a lie so I just nod.
The men are facing off. The Punisher is standing flat-footed, arms by his sides like he’s not afraid to take a punch. Killian is bouncing on his toes, fists up, taking a long measuring look at his opponent. Killian’s talking to him, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
The darkening expression on The Punisher’s face gives me a clue, though. He suddenly lashes out with a big swing toward Killian’s jaw. Killian easily moves out of the way, quick and smooth as a jungle cat. Is that enough of an advantage over this guy’s size? I guess we’ll see.
Killian is still bouncing lightly on his feet, and the crowd is getting louder, when his eyes suddenly flick up over his fists and meet mine.
He stills and a rush of heat explodes through my body. I can’t look away and apparently neither can he, because he’s still holding my gaze when The Punisher’s fist lands a hard punch to his gut.
His body absorbs the blow with a small “oof”, and he dances a few steps back, rolls his neck, regrouping. Having that six pack of muscle saved his organs, but I know he’s still probably winded and in pain.
Not a good way to start a fight. Why do I feel like that was my fault?
Chapter 28
Killian
Ikeep my head down, ignoring the crowd as I find Sandro and his boys.
I shake their hands and when Sandro shakes mine, he asks, “Ready?”
“Aye. Need anything from me?” I know they have heavy bets on this fight.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, takes a moment to think. “You’re walking in there the underdog.” Glancing over the crowd, a smile ghosts over his lips. “Most bets here are for The Punisher dropping you in the third round. Give them a show. Let the crowd see you taking some of his punches. Then after a few rounds, you put him on his back. Can you do that?”
I clench my fists, feeling the adrenaline rip through my blood. “Aye. I can do that.”
His glance flits to the giant in the ring and a brow raises. He pats my back. “Don’t die. Your sister would never forgive me.”
With a dark chuckle, I hop in the ring, getting into my mental space for the fight. I let the noise of the crowd fall to the background, my focus on the feckin’ Neanderthal staring me down. I cycle through my footwork. It’s a rhythm that centers me as I visualize the hit that’ll drop the fucker.
At this point, it stops being about the crowd, the bets or the money. It becomes about survival. Only one of us is walking out of this ring. And it damn well will be me. Losing is not an option.
The ref introduces us to the crowd with a dramatic flair, then we come together in the center. The Punisher’s got his hands by his sides. Like I thought. Cocky motherfucker.
I move in closer with a bob and weave, meet his gaze. Let the games begin. “You ever hear your own nose crack, mate?”
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.
“It’s a satisfying crunch. I’ll let ya hear it twice if you like.”
His eyes darken under bushy brows. “You’re dead, Irish.”
I grin, bob and weave and feign a punch to his head, pulling back and smirking as his hands fly up to protect his face. Grand. He’s on the defensive now, where I need him.
I’ve taken a few steps back, calculating my next move when for some bleedin’ reason, my eyes flick to the crowd… right to the one person that could knock me out of my game.
