And then it comes. Killian steps in and unleashes a flurry of punches, both fists working the Punisher’s ribs as the giant stumbles back, caught flat footed and off guard. Then a brutal uppercut throws The Punisher into the fence.
Before he has a chance to recover, Killian steps in and delivers blow after blow to his face. The Punisher slides down the cage fence as a collective gasp comes from the crowd.
Then silence, like everyone is holding their breath at the same time. I can feel the disbelief in the air as seconds tick by. Then shouts explode as sprays of blood pepper the air. Killian is still demolishing the guy’s face, and the ref is taking his sweet time walking over there.
“Get up, you pussy!” “Punisher, get up!” The crowd is pissed.
Killian stands to his full height and steps back.
Unbelievably, after that beating, the big Italian is still conscious. He struggles but holds onto the fence and pulls himself up with a grunt. He shakes his head. Blood is pouring into his eye from a cut on his brow, both his eyes are swollen slits that he can barely see out of, and he’s got one arm wrapped around his middle.
Killian doesn’t go back at him, though I’m sure the ref would allow it. Instead, he walks a slow circle, cracking his neck and keeping an eye on the man.
The crowd is booing and jeering. Obviously, they bet on the wrong fighter.
I glance over at Sandro. He and his men are grinning and high-fiving. They obviously didn’t.
The ref checks the Italian’s eyes and waves his arms. “He’s done.”
Killian strides to the corner and grabs a water bottle, downs it. The Punisher pushes the ref out of his way, stumbling and breathing ragged as he falls out of the ring and heads for the safety of the locker room to lick his wounds.
“Guess you’re up, Doc.” Sully grins down at me.
I sigh and head into the locker room, purposefully ignoring Killian. I feel drained from all the worry and anxiety, and I blame him. He didn’t have to wait so long to turn the fight around, but it was like he was enjoying the pain.Asshole.
When I open the door, the ruckus makes me pause. There’s another loud bang. I peek around the corner. The Punisher slams his fist into a metal locker, denting it. Two men are trying to calm him down.
“Everyone has a bad night,” one man says. “It’s bound to happen.”
The pissed off giant lowers himself onto the wooden bench and swipes at his face with a towel, smearing it with fresh blood. “I want a rematch. Irish cunt just got lucky,” he growls.
I roll my eyes as I grab my bag from the side room and walk to stand in front of the sweaty beast of a man. I know nothing about boxing, but I do know that brutal takedown was pure skill and power, not luck, and Killian was obviously holding back before that. “If you’re done throwing a temper tantrum, I need to look at your injuries.”
One dark eye blazes at me beneath prominent brows, the other one is completely swollen shut. His jaw muscle ticks as he looks me over. “You’re the doctor?”
I open my bag, toss him a gel ice pack and begin to pull out my supplies to clean and stitch his injuries. “And you’re the genius, apparently,” I mumble. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m done tiptoeing around men, done being afraid for one goddamn night.
The two men snort, and The Punisher whips his head over to glare at them. “Fuck off.”
They do, but not without more snickering.
I patch him up as best I can. Killian really did a number on him in a short amount of time. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t the one that had to fix his destruction. After palpating his ribs, I’m sure there’s at least two broken. “I suggest you get those ribs x-rayed and have someone stay with you tonight to monitor for a concussion.”
He grins, his teeth stained with blood. “You offering, darling?”
I crack open a second ice pack and hand it to him for his ribs, ignoring his comment. “No alcohol, no sedatives and no aspirin. If you need a painkiller, Tylenol is your safest bet. No more than 4,000 mg a day. Got it?”
He watches me pack up with one puffy eye as he holds the ice pack over the other one. “You’re a bossy little thing, aren’t you.”
I feel his interest in me intensify. Time to get out. “Have a good night.”
By the time I step back out of the locker room, the place is almost emptied out. The lights have been raised, and the tables have been cleared. There’s a few knots of people left chatting.
I spot Killian in the group with his brother, Sandro and the other Italians. He’s taken off his gloves, put on a robe and isholding a bottle of Guiness. He’s listening intently to something Gunnar is telling him.
I fold my arms. His injuries need to be checked, too. Is he going to let me?
As he’s bringing the beer bottle to his mouth, his eyes meet mine. He pauses.
