“Who said I ever wanted one of you?” I snap. The words taste like poison, but I can’t put her in more danger.
“Then why are you looking at her?”
I ignore him and start picking up the pieces. Focus. Anything but his voice.
“I see you,” he says. “Don’t think I don’t watch.”
I almost laugh but keep my eyes on the card. Anything to shut him up.
“Your family thinks they own?—”
“Because we do,” I cut in. “And you’re scared we’ll find out what you’re doing in our towns.”
“You go near Aoife again, and I’ll rip your fucking hands off.”
I laugh, full and raw. He thinks he can take me. Funniest thing I’ve heard all week.
Red floods my vision. My fist cracks against his jaw before I even feel the movement.
He stumbles back, grinning through the blood. “There it is. The Rage.”
The moment Conor’s fist crashes into my jaw, the world tunnels into red. Pain cracks across my face, but it only feeds the fire already burning inside me. I lunge at him, shoving him backward hard.
He recovers faster, faster than I expected. His shoulder drives into my stomach and we crash to the floor in a heap of fists and rage. My elbow slams into his ribs. He grunts. My knuckles scrape bone as I swing again, landing another punch right below his eye.
He claws at my side, twisting us. We’re rolling on the ground now, dirt and blood mixing, the puzzle long forgotten. He gets on top, tries to land a blow to my temple, but I block it and retaliate with a punch to his throat that makes him cough.
He lands one on my cheekbone. It fucking stings, burns. I elbow him in the gut, slam him sideways, and roll. Growling. Spitting. Throwing.
“No rules now, huh?” he snarls.
“No bloodline’s saving you,” I spit, cracking him across the temple again. His bloods on my hands, and I don’t care.
Boots slam. Voices shout. Hands drag us apart.
Leo yanks me by the collar while an Irish handler grabs Conor.
“Enough!”
My chest heaves. Knuckles torn. He’s still glaring, still breathing. Shame.
“What the hell happened?” Leo shouts.
“They can’t finish a strategy puzzle without acting feral,” the Irish handler mutters.
Conor wipes his mouth. “Stay the fuck away from her.”
I shrug off Leo’s hand and take a step forward. “Or what?”
Silence answers. Louder than any threat.
The fourth trial is done. The fire’s lit.
Conor’s dragged out. Leo studies me, shaking his head.
“Tell me you don’t love her,” he says.
The words hit harder than any punch Liam just hit me with. I flinch. Nothing comes out. No denial. No rage.
