Jackson fights like he’s trying to win.
Carrson fights like he’s already won. Methodical. Unflinching.
I grip the railing, air trapped in my throat.
Carrson rears back and delivers a hard, brutal hit to Jackson’s side that knocks him off balance long enough for Carrson to step in close and drive himback again. Jackson swipes at him, catches him, drags him into a headlock. Carrson bucks and they both topple, crashing into the coffee table. It splinters, shattering under their combined weight.
Someone swears. The rest of the men shift back, giving them space.
Jackson shoves off the table and comes up swinging, but Carrson slips past him. Jackson lunges again, moving faster, frustration bleeding through, as Carrson meets him head-on. A jab snaps Jackson’s head back. Another drives into his gut.
I don’t cheer. But I want to.
Jackson doubles over, wheezing.
“Fuck you, Carrson,” he grits out, dragging in air. “I’m taking this house, and now I’mdefinitelytaking your girl.”
His hand jerks upward, pointing right at me.
I don’t step back. I plant my feet instead, meeting his stare.
“Better watch out, babe,” he says, swiping the blood from his mouth with his thumb. “I’m coming for you.”
Cold spreads through me at the way he says it, like a promise, but I glare back.
“Someone give me a knife,” Carrson says, holding out his hand.
The words are quiet. Emotionless. I’m sure I misheard him, that my mind is still ringing from the sound of fists meeting flesh, from the violence of it all.
Carrson wouldn’t really cut Jackson.
Wouldn’t really kill him.
Would he?
I turn to the other men for the answer and find it in the way they freeze. No one laughs. No one tells him to calm down. The air feels like it got sucked out of the room instead, the silence loud.
One of the brothers finally speaks, smaller than the others and wearing thin, wire-rimmed glasses, his voice careful. “You can’t, Carrson. You know what’ll happen.”
Carrson doesn’t acknowledge him. His hand remains extended, palm open, waiting.
My gaze darts between him and the rest of them, trying to decide if this is part of the fight or another thing entirely. But no one moves. No one reaches foranything. It’s suddenly, horribly clear that there’s a line here none of them are willing to cross.
At last, Carrson lowers his arm. Not reluctantly or with embarrassment. More like he’s swallowing something bitter.
“Fine,” he says. “We do it the hard way.”
He hooks a hand into Jackson’s shirt, hauls him in, and drives his fist into his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. Jackson barely has time to react before Carrson takes him down, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming him forward.
Jackson hits the floor hard, head first, and this time he doesn’t get back up. He lies there, slumped and unmoving at Carrson’s feet.
I should be focused on Jackson. I know I should.
But all I can see is Carrson, blood streaked across his face and on his hands, his breathing slow, like none of it required effort in the first place.
My stomach twists, then warms. I hate that I notice the shape of his muscles and the way the rest of the men back up, deferential, when his attention goes to them.
I can’t seem to stop.
