Page 2 of They Break Beauty

Fortunately, I never just stopped at the surface with anything.

That was how fools were made.

So I had an eagle-eye focus on him, enabling me to see his fingers trying to delve discreetly into the front pocket of his bulky, oversized sweats.

He was retrieving something.

A weapon, no doubt.

Something that was outlawed in these fights.

It was bare-knuckle all the way.

Sure enough, as he made a show of pushing to his feet, I caught sight of the glint of metal, noticeable even through the dark of night and the back alley only being lit by a couple of muted streetlights, one constantly flickering because it was on the verge of burning out entirely.

He spun and swung his fist—too slow as usual, as he had been this entire fight—and I was ready, snagging his wrist and stopping what would have been all that metal slicing my face open enough to permanently scar. Been there, done that. Not looking to repeat it. The jagged scar down the left side of my throat told that story all too well.

“You’re humiliating yourself,” I spat, as I took in the brass knuckles now decorating his right fist. Pimped out ones at that, all fucking polished to the point that they were sparkling, which had given their presence away far too early for him to make the sneak attack he’d clearly intended with them.

“Hellraiser,” he growled back at me.

I hadn’t heard that name in a long time.

I grinned, baring my teeth. “That’s right, motherfucker.”

In the next beat, I shifted my grip on his hand, avoided all the metal, then I yanked it down, while driving my knee up at the same time.

A telltale snap sounded as the strategic impact broke his wrist, the weak bastard shrieking out down the alley.

Those shrieks only intensified as I yanked him around by his damaged wrist, kicked his legs out from under him, then forced him into a sleeper hold, while he flailed uselessly on the ground.

It wasn’t long before I heard that expected slap on the rough ground as he tapped out.

I held on a little longer than was necessary, reveling in the sight of him turning purple and coming close to taking his last breath.

“Lev!” the ref and fight organizer called, and I looked out to see the familiar figure of Sammy Higgins shaking his head at me, his long dirty-blond hair whipping around him from the vehement movements.

With a grunt, I released the sorry shit in my hold, then rose to my full height.

The crowds parted and Sammy strode into the fray, then grasped my hand and held it high, solidifying that I was the victor.

Roars, applause, and high-pitched whistles rang out.

But I was only focused on one particular aspect of the celebration.

The chants.

“Knight! Knight! Knight!”

They worshipped me.

Damn fucking straight.

As it started to die down a little and Sammy’s two assistants dragged my opponent away to get him the medical attention he most definitely needed, Sammy guided me off to the side where I’d left my black hoodie earlier.

I snatched it up and shrugged it on, flipping the hood up.

“I asked you to own the trumped-up shithead and put him out of the street fighting racket for a good long while, not kill him, Lev.”

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