Page 18 of Our Pucking Way

Fear was bitter on my tongue, a stark contrast to the heat that had coursed through my veins when he held me close. Jack was more than a fighter; he was a part of me, and seeing him stagger, bloody-faced, burnt through my soul.

“Please,” I begged, turning to Greyson, my eyes pleading for mercy where I knew there would be none. “Stop the fight.”

“They wouldn’t appreciate that, Kennedy,” Greyson said, sounding sorry, as if he weren’t the one who had put this all into motion. “They want to be able to protect you.”

The violence unfolding before me was raw. Jack’s fists were relentless, connecting with a satisfying thud against the jaw of the man who attacked him from behind. For a fleeting moment, triumph surged through me.

But while that opponent fell to the ground, unconscious, the other one tackled Jack to the ground in a move that expelled the air from my lungs. They grappled on the grimy floor, a tangle of limbs.

The other man pinned Jack down and slammed his fists into his face over and over.

“Please!” My voice broke.

Greyson’s arm tightened around me, his voice cutting through the chaos with a command that silenced the crowd. “That’s enough.”

I barely registered the words, my eyes fixed on Jack’s still form. The room spun, the cheers of the crowd fading into a distant echo. This was all my fault.

Jack rolled onto his stomach and got to his feet. Slowly, but surely, he stood tall. Blood dripped from his face onto the floor.

But when his eyes found mine, he grinned through all the blood streaking his face, then gave me a wink.

Love swelled in my chest, along with relief.

I would have done anything for Jack.

Maybe I didn’t have to feel guilty that he would do anything for me.

6

My heart hammered against my ribcage, echoing the deafening roar of the crowd as Carter strode into the pit. Every muscle in my body tensed.

“Easy, Kennedy,” Greyson murmured, his breath hot against my ear, his fingers daringly inching up my thigh.

He ignited a wildfire of sensation that clashed with the anxiety curling in my gut. I should have pushed him away, scolded him for making the guys prove themselves like this, but the truth was, his touch stroked a rush of reluctant arousal.

Carter stood defiantly in the center of the ring. Bare to the waist, I could see every chiseled ab and the hard angle of his hips above his faded denim jeans.

“Just send them all out!” he shouted.

Greyson frowned as the crowd responded with a frenzied cheer that vibrated through the house. It felt as if my three were winning the crowd over, and I smiled.

The three of them stepped into the ring. The first had a cruel glint in his eyes, his knuckles already wrapped and blood-stained…both his and Jack’s blood. I chewed my lower lip as I searched the faces of the other two, but they were both fresh, not sweaty or bloodied like Carter would be soon. The second was amountain of a man, as big and powerful as Carter. The third was leaner, but he moved with lethal grace.

Carter didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at them with sheer fury, turning to block blows and moving with relentless violence.

“Carter’s an asshole, but he’s got guts,” Greyson muttered, grudging admiration in his voice.

His hand traced the contour of my hip, sending a fresh wave of heat through me. But I barely noticed when my whole heart was in the ring with Carter.

“Come on, Carter,” I whispered under my breath. Watching him, for a moment, I forgot everything else—my amnesia, the past that was just beginning to return to me, the dangerous game we were all playing.

All that mattered was Carter, fighting not just for himself, but for all of us.

Carter’s fists were a blur, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed through the underground club like thunder. Every strike he landed was precise, every block a narrow escape from the relentless assault of his three attackers. I chewed my lower lip, feeling every punch in my chest as if it were my own heart taking the beating.

Greyson’s hand slid up my thigh, distracting me for a moment with its possessive pressure, but my eyes remained locked on Carter. He was a whirlwind of violence.

He ducked, a fist whizzing past where his head had been a split second earlier, and retaliated with a vicious uppercut that sent one of his opponents staggering back. But even as the man reeled, the other two moved in, coordinated and cold.

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