“Ashland!” Bianca screams again.
Through the blood and the pain, I see Crowning move toward her. His men shove her forward, and she stumbles, barely catching herself on the ring post.
Crowning reaches through the ropes and grabs a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back.
“Marcus, don't—” She gasps.
“You lying, cheating littlewhore.” He slaps her.
The sound echoes through the warehouse. Her head snaps to the side, and a red mark blooms on her pale cheek.
Everything… stops.
The roar in my ears goes silent. The pain disappears. The world narrows to a single point: his hand on her.
He hit her.
He hit. My. Woman.
Something shatters inside me.
I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving. The pain in my ribs, my face, my leg—gone. There's nothing but rage. Pure, primal, unstoppable rage.
Crowning turns back to me, still smiling. “Oh, there you?—”
I hit him so hard my knuckles crack.
His head snaps back, and blood sprays from his mouth. He staggers, but I'm already moving. I grab him by the throat, lift him off his feet, and slam him into the canvas.
“You fucking hit her!”
Thering shakes.
I straddle his chest, and I hit him. Again. And again. And again.
His nose breaks. His cheekbone splits. His jaw cracks.
“Ashland!” Tiernan shouts. “Lad?—”
I don't stop.
Blood covers my fists, the canvas, everything. Crowning tries to protect his face, but it doesn't matter. I grab his wrists, pin them down, and keep hitting.
Somewhere, distantly, I hear my family shouting—McCarthy voices, violent words of encouragement.
“Finish him!”
“That's it, Ash!”
“Make him pay!”
And Crowning's remaining men, the ones still conscious, shouting back:
“Get up, boss!”
“Kill the McCarthy bastard!”
But I don't hear them. I don't hear anything except the sound of my fists breaking him apart.
