She’s on the far side near the Irish section, knife in hand, determined, focused, angry.
And failing.
Her stance is wrong, wrist stiff. She slashes at air like it’s insulted her, too slow, grip too tight.
I take a slow drag of smoke, watching her.
Clothes cling to her like second skin, leggings tight on her hips, tank low at the back, spine bare. Waist pulled in, shoulders taut. All fire and frustration.
She’s five-three at best, I’m six-one. She would fit so nicely under my chin, my body wrapped around hers.
She’s magnetic and she doesn’t even know it.
Her hair’s pulled back, loose strands slipping into her face. She swipes them away, as annoyed with them as with the blade.
Milo walks up beside me, also watching.
“Should we help before she stabs her own leg?” he says, with a laugh.
“No,” I say, exhaling smoke. “Let her try, plus it’s not our problem.”
Marco joins us, towel around his neck.
“She’s not bad,” he says. “For someone who’s never had to fight for anything.”
“Think she’ll make it through the year?” Milo asks.
“If she quits treating the knife like it scares her, maybe.” I shrug. “Again, not our problem.”
“She’s not, but?—”
“But nothing.” My brothers see it, the way I watch her. They see the rage and know what her family did. But I can’t stop looking.
Rosa steps in, watching. “She’s from your blood war,” she says, voice low. “That makes her off-limits, doesn’t it?”
“Everything worth having fun with usually is,” I say without thinking.
Rosa stares at me. “Just don’t get sloppy,” she mutters, and disappears down the hall.
I stay a little longer, watching Aoife try to get her footing. She drops the blade once, mutters a curse, picks it up again. Her instructor corrects her grip, she nods, jaw clenched.
She doesn’t give up, and fuck if that doesn’t make me want to cross the ring and show her exactly how to hold it. How to use it. How to turn it into a weapon instead of a weight.
But I don’t. I stay where I am. Watching.
“He’s watching you staring at her.” Milo's voice hits my ears.
I take a drag and look around. “Who?” Not seeing anyone looking at me.
“Liam’s son, Conor,” Milo replies.
My lips curl slightly, as I see him standing next to his cousin Aoife, and wraps his arm over her shoulder.
I bring my cigarette to my lips and take in a long drag. Another reminder on why I should not be looking at her. Wondering what her fucking lips taste like.
Conor locks eyes with me. I don’t look away. A fight hums under the surface over a girl I’ve never touched, hooked by a single look.
He backs down and laughs with Aoife.
