Sticky, hairy bodies rubbed against mine as I squeezed past. One man nearly blew my eardrum out, lunging forward to scream at the fighters like a rabid dog.
Damn buffoons.
I used my elbow like a chair leg, jabbing back the restless lions. But a warm hand unexpectedly slid into mine. Fingers laced, chaining me to them—Lochlainn’s.
Heat rose up to my cheeks. I internally cursed myself for the reaction, willing them to chill the fuck out.
He pulled me deeper into the frenzy, his free arm working like a battering ram, knocking people aside. Heads whipped. Fists clenched. But when they saw the man behind that trunk of an arm, every scowl and hand lowered. Eyes even cowered. The mob all backed down.
Eventually the chaos thinned.
“Thank the fucking Lord,”I mumbled under my breath.
Loud cackles of laughter drew my attention to the side. A small fight was about to throw down. Several men gathered in a tight circle, eyes fueled by anticipation. There was a glimpse of one head above the rest—a tall, lanky man with a shaved scalp, face like sun-dried leather. His arm lifted, then came crashing down.
Slap!
Severaloooohsounds rumbled from the onlookers.
I weaved my head left and right, trying to see the poor bastard who’d been struck.
Holy shit . . .
I halted, quickly untangling from Lochlainn.
A frail, older woman stood hunched over, rubbing at hercheek. A neatly wound silver bun sat atop her head, several rogue strands curling loose at her temples. A simple gray dress with a white apron tied in the back, dropping loose from her body.
This was wrong and so out of line. That poor old lady could’ve been someone’s precious nana, or a sweet, garden-loving neighbor who brought you fresh-baked muffins with dried fruit.
What the hell was this? Cruel torture? Punishment? That beast of a man needed to be put in his place.
“This is barbaric, Lochlainn! That’s an old lady! Stop them!” I shot out and pointed to the feeble woman who was now straightening.
Lochlainn placed a palm on the small of my back and lead me toward the slap-fight crime scene. An amused chuckle reverberated from his chest.
“Don’t let looks deceive ya. That’s Lights-Out Louisa—renowned champion.” The crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepened with mischief.
He’s got to be kidding me . . .Washe kidding me?
The old woman spat a glob of blood on the stone at her feet.
“Well done,” she said. “Gotta admit, that was quite nice.” An aged hand dramatically massaged into her cheek. “I haven’t felt such soft hands in a long time. Softer than a Brasser lotioning a cock.”
A roar of laughter broke out around us. Lochlainn joined in, then stepped forward to get a closer look.
It felt like a thousand-pound anchor lodged in my jaw, dragging it down to the floor.
Did she say what I thought she just said? Grandma was savage.
The woman wound her arm back. Her weathered forearm was exposed, showing skin worn with time—but it held steady, nonetheless.
“Buckle up, sonny.”
She suddenly launched forward, violently whipping her limb like a slingshot.
Whack!
She nailed him in the temple with impeccable precision. The hit smacked the soul right out of his body as the large brute hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.
