“Then prove it.” I kiss him again, careful not to touch the split in the middle. “Go and kick this douchebag’s ass.”
He nods again, more sure this time. More determined and, let’s be real, a little pissed off, too.
Finally.
54
JAGGER
“Five seconds,” Roman calls.
Five seconds? I only have five more seconds?
Another surge of adrenaline gushes through me as I stare at the love of my life crouched in front of me. Her hands cup my beaten face, and her bottom lip wobbles. But her eyes? Fuck, those coffee brown eyes. They’re so damn resolute, I can’t help but want to syphon some of it and keep it for myself.
There are so many things I want to say. I want to apologize. I want to ask if she truly understands what she’s asking me to do. What she’s willing to give up. But there’s only five seconds.
“Vi,” I start.
“You got this, Jag.”
With a slow, encouraging nod, Violet’s warm touch falls from my face. She steps back, giving me room to stand when all I want to do is drag her toward me again. How did she know? How thehelldid she know? Does it even matter?
Roman pulls off the folding chair, and I turn toward Morgan with a new perspective, well-aware of exactly what I’m walking into. Funny thing is, Morgan has no idea. Not anymore. The asshole’s grinning at me like we’re just getting started. And maybe, in his mind, we are. But me? I wipe at the cut above mybrow with the back of my taped knuckles. I’m ready to finish this thing.
Keeping my guard tight, I stay light on my feet as the bell rings. Morgan tests the line, throwing a quick jab, but I dodge it at the last second. Surprise flashes across his face until I crash into him with a takedown.
Didn’t see that one coming, did you, asshole?
As we both hit the mat, the breath leaves my lungs on a whoosh, and we tumble over each other, each fighting for the upper hand when he lands another savage blow to my bruised side.
Yeah, okay. I felt that one.
Pinning me with his weight, he cracks my skull with his elbow, smothering my mouth with his opposite forearm. Stars erupt, blurring my vision, but I blink them back, refusing to play his game for another second. Nah. The asshole’s had his fun.
I center myself, grab his wrist, and twist while simultaneously shifting my hips and exploding up until I’m finally back on my feet. It happens so fast, he barely has time to scramble to his own. I could attack and catch him off guard. Instead, I give him space, curious if the world around us is fading into the background for him as much as it is for me since we can finally brawl for real. He cocks his head, watching me as he wipes beneath his nose, though I’m pretty sure the blood staining his knuckles belongs to me. For now.
It’s time to make this bitch bleed.
Squaring up again, I circle him, my sights zeroed in on his weakest point. I hammer his lead leg with three calf kicks. It’s the same move I did during an earlier round, but this time, I don’t half-ass it. Sharp and fast, I focus on precision instead of power. All right, that’s a lie. I kick the shit out of him, making sure to leave his leg on fire.
He throws a clumsy punch, but I dodge it with ease. Not so tough now, are you? As he tries to give his lead leg his weight, he nearly loses his balance and winces. Too bad his leg is worthless for the moment. Taking advantage of an opening, I hit him with a quick jab-cross combination before stepping in with a clean elbow and slicing his brow open.
“Fuck!” he seethes. Blood pools from the cut and drips down the side of his face.
I grin at the sight, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Anytime now,” I goad.
He goes for a quick kick, but I sidestep him, punishing him with a hook to the liver. He buckles like a bridge under too much weight, and the crowd loses their damn minds.
“There he is!”
“That’s the Jagger we fucking love!”
“Hit him again!”
Morgan’s enraged snarl mingles with their cheers as he registers what they’re saying. My adrenaline feeds off it until I can barely feel the sharp pain in my side. The one I swore would be my downfall until Violet pulled me aside.
Chest heaving, I glance at the clock. Twenty-two seconds. There’s time. I can finish him in twenty-two seconds. His arms swing in another wild, clumsy punch, but I’m already inside his reach. Uppercut. Elbow. Calf-kick. His leg gives out, and he drops to his knee. Rushing toward him, I land another punch to his jaw, and he flies to his left, his taped hands connecting with the mat in a loud slap. The sound is like music to my fucking ears.
