And I love him anyway. Because of it. In spite of it.Forit.
“I love you.”
Marcus gurgles something, maybe a plea, maybe a curse. His body jerks weakly beneath Ashland's weight.
I nod once, slow and deliberate.
Permission.
Blessing.
Mine.
And somehow, amid the blood and violence and screaming, Ashland hears that silent plea.
His eyes close, just for a heartbeat. When they open again, there's no hesitation left.
His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark with purpose.
His fist comes down like a hammer. The sound is sickening, wet, and final.
Crowning's body goes limp beneath him.
Tiernan vaults into the ring, but Ashland doesn't move.
Tiernan kneels down and takes Crowning's pulse. He shakes his head once.
Ashland looks at Crowning one last time, then leans down, close enough to whisper in the dead man's ear.
“She was never yours,” he says, and I hear him. From where I am, I hear every word. “She was always mine. I hope you burn in hell knowing she’s mine.”
Tiernan nods to Seamus. “He's gone.”
Ashland stands and wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He looks directly at me.
Seamus climbs into the ring as Ashland holds my gaze. He addresses Crowning's men, his voice loud and clear.
“You know the rules. It was a fair fight in the ring. Any repercussions from the likes of you will be quickly and severely dealt with. There will be no war that continues after this. Is that clear?”
The few men who remain nod grudgingly.
Seamus turns to one of them. “You know what to do now.”
I don't know what the legalities are, what the politics are. All I care about is Ashland.
The crowd parts as Ashland climbs out of the ring and walks toward me. He's limping, favoring his left side. His face is a mess of cuts and bruises, and his lip is split. Blood still streams from the gash above his eyebrow. His knuckles are raw and torn, exposing bone.
He looks like a nightmare made flesh.
He looks beautiful. My avenging angel.
When he reaches me, his palm cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting.
“Are you hurt?” he rasps.
My god. He's barely stitched together with flesh and bone, and he's asking if I'm hurt.
“Did he touch you?”
