“D, come on. Just let it go.” Covington pleads with Deacon to see reason. But he’s too far gone, and I, for one, will not be bringing him back from the ledge.
He’ll make a good replacement for the minotaur.
“You want what’s mine?” I ask him. “You want to know what she tastes like? How she feels?”
He nods, too drunk to know better.
“You know how to take it,” I say, shrugging. “What’s stopping you?”
Deacon’s eyes narrow, and the grin on his face grows sloppy, a bit of brew dripping from the corner of his mouth before he spits at my feet.
“Is that a challenge?” he asks.
My brows lift.
“That depends,” I answer. “Are you prepared to die for her? Because I am.”
He stares at me a moment, assessing the seriousness of my words. But he’s already made up his mind. I can see it in his eyes.
In my periphery, Dame appears to be enjoying a private conversation with Dred’s roommate, Ethan, and behind the bar, Dred is pretending to dry empty glasses. But from the stillness of Dame’s tail and the slowness with which Dred is moving, I know they’re listening.
He’s going to challenge me, I tell Dred.
Dame wants to know if you need his blade, he asks.
I shake my head.
I won’t need it.
Alright. Just try not to make a mess.I don’t feel like cleaning it.
I laugh out loud, just in time to hear Deacon uttering the rites.
“I, Deacon Anderson, challenge you, Elliot Cross, to relinquish your claim on Iris Ashb?—”
I don’t have the patience to hear her name on his lips, so I drive my fist through his face before he’s finished. The satisfying crunch of snapping bone echoes, and a few people mutter in awe as I rear back to smash my head into his nose.
It crinkles like paper, and Deacon reaches to catch the blood before it comes spilling from his face.
“Oh, come on, Deacon,” I taunt. “It’s like you don’t even want her.”
A snarl takes up his bloody face, and he recovers just enough to swing at me.
I let it connect to see what he’s working with. As expected, it isn’t much.
I reach across him, fisting his shirt in my hands and lifting him from the floor, to bring him down on his back with a heavy thud.
Somewhere behind me, a girl squeals at the sight, but the crowd has already dispersed, forming a decent circle around us as they are apt to do when the wolves start fighting.
A few people cheer as I pummel Deacon into the ground, and I wait until I hear the crack of his jaw before letting him up for air.
“Do you yield?” I ask.
He shakes his head, eyes glazed over as he continues to smile.
“Why do you care so much?” he asks. “ You don’t love her. You could have anyone. She’s just another succ-slu?—”
Deacon doesn’t finish that word. I’m sure he would if he had the chance. But talking is hard to do when there’s a fist between your teeth.
