Page 16 of High Stakes

What he doesn’t know is that the tattoos hide all of my scars, and my face isn’t disfigured because I never let anyone get close enough to land a blow above my shoulders. I return his smile with a viscous smirk of my own and move closer, pulling my hands up in front of my face.

A voice rumbles through the speakers hanging from the rafters overhead. “Place your bets now, because this one isn’t going to last long! Knockout Kennedy and Two Punch Thompson face off starts now! Here we go!” The crowd erupts into screams as I circle around Thompson and block his first three swings.

“I can’t wait to knock those teeth outta your skull,” he sneers and spits at my feet.

“Well, go on then,” I encourage and spread my arms wide, leaving my face unprotected. He lunges forward and swings wildly, but I duck and dip around every punch. He gets one closer than I care to admit. I feel the air against my cheek as his knuckles barely miss me. My jaw clenches as he lands a blow to my abdomen before I can drop my arm.

I grunt and shift, but can’t escape his knuckles as he pounds into my sides. That is definitely going to bruise a kidney. I let him get a few more hits in, focusing on the pain that radiates throughout my stomach and sides. I relish it since it’s the only thing I seem to be able to feel anymore.

“That all you got? Ready to give up?” Thompson pulls back to catch his breath and circles his arms, stretching out the tiredmuscles. They always do this. Every time I get in the ring, they come at me with full force and tire themselves out before I’ve even landed a few good hits. What a fucking waste.

“Not a fucking chance,” I grumble and surge forward so fast that he doesn’t even have time to throw his fists up. My right fist connects with his jaw and then my left fist connects with his nose. The cartilage crunches under my fist, and blood pours from both nostrils as he drops to his knees. Thompson groans out a curse and then slumps forward, his face pressed against the cold concrete with a crimson puddle growing beneath his face.

I step back and watch as two people come forward to drag him away by his ankles. Fucking pussy. My arms come up and I reset for the next fight. I don’t know how many people came out tonight to participate, but I’m in it for the long haul at this point. I am either going to leave with broken knuckles or in an ambulance.

After three more fights, I’m starting to feel my energy waning. The last man got a few good hits to the side of my head before I dropped him and my ears are still ringing. I shuffle forward and meet the final fighter of the night. My stomach drops to the floor as I take in his red hair and green eyes. He was one of the Irish bodyguards that drove away with Silas all those months ago. One of the last people to see him alive and breathing.

Anger bubbles within me and my muscles begin to tingle, a newfound energy emerging from my rage. He steps forward with a wicked grin. “Alright there, Kennedy?” he says with a heavy accent. He fucking knows who I am, and he fucking knows that I know who he is.

I can’t stop myself. I lunge forward and start throwing punch after punch, which he dodges easily enough. He’s got fresh muscles, while I’m running on fumes and rage, and he knows it. A guttural cry escapes my lips as I swing and connect withhis side. He lurches forward at the strength behind my punch and I take my other hand and pull his head down until his nose connects with my knee.

He stumbles back and wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. His teeth are stained red as he smiles at me. “What’s got your cock in a knot?” he calls out as I straighten my spine and spit blood.

I don’t say anything, I just watch his movements. He takes two steps to the right, slides his left foot slightly back, and then jumps forward with a flurry of punches. I get hit a few times, taking fists to the jaw and side of the head, but I don’t fight back. I block and let him hit whatever he can.

The anger dissipates and I’m left with that hollow feeling inside again. Maybe this is what I deserve. To get the shit beat out of me because I couldn’t protect my own family. He lands a punch straight to my nose and I drop to my knees.Just finish me off, you fucking prick. I just want to sink into the dark void of unconsciousness for a little while and get away from all my grief and anger and pain and guilt.

A pair of hands grab my biceps and haul me back to my feet. “Get the fuck up, Declan. You can wallow in self-pity later. A broken nose and black eyes are not going to bring him back.” I feel myself being pushed forward and I stumble back into the light. My eyes open just in time to see the fighter swing at me again, but I duck and land a double body shot.

After my knuckles connect with his skin, I inhale sharply and channel all my emotions into this one moment. I lash out with my fists and hit him anywhere I can reach that I know will cause damage. After one rapid jab cross combo, he falls to the floor in a heap of blood and sweat. I look over my shoulder to see if I can find whoever pulled me up, but all I see are men shouting and shoving each other to get to the money pits. My tongue tracesover my split lip and I spit a blood clot onto the floor. Fuck, this is not going to go over well tomorrow morning.

I shuffle over to my chair in the corner and pull on my clothes slowly. Every muscle feels like I lit it on fire, and my kidneys are screaming in protest at even the slightest twist. The man from the beginning of the night walks over and drops a wad of cash into my palm without a word. I nod once and make my way through the crowd of people. The cool night air ghosting across my heated skin sends a shiver down my spine. I look over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows.

The lights of a motorcycle cut through the darkness as it thunders in the opposite direction and I’m nearly thrown to my knees at the memory of Silas on a bike with a similar style light set-up.

Fucking hell, I miss my brother.

7

HECTOR

The sound of gunfire echoes through the safehouse. Three rounds. POP! POP! POP! I roll my eyes and continue tuning the guitar in my lap, trying to find something to smooth over my frayed nerves. No, I did not think that Emelia would actually shoot me in the range that day, but the look in her eye had been enough to give me pause. And a hard-on from Hell. I did not expect to be so turned on by her display of power.

Another two rounds pop off, followed by a guttural shriek. So much for fucking peace and quiet today. I grip the neck of the guitar and stalk out of the room to find the she-demon responsible for ninety-nine percent of my problems. My eyes narrow as I approach the conference room she uses as a lair. I can see through the open door that there are papers littering the floor. Some are still whole, but most have been ripped to shreds.

Emelia is standing with her back to the door. Her shoulders are tense and her whole body heaves as she struggles to calm her breathing. I can see her finger tapping on her thigh to count out the breaths. My eyes follow the chaos around the room. There are photos pinned to the drywall, connected by various colored strings. The display stretches across the wall that the door is onall the way to the wall directly across from me. It’s enough to make any conspiracy theorist happy. Some of the images have been scratched out with a permanent marker, while others have mustaches and monocles drawn on them.

My eyes roll again at the sheer insanity that is this project of hers. As I step further into the room, my toe kicks against an empty bullet casing, sending it skittering across the floor. Emelia whips around, raises her gun, and fires off three rounds. Her eyes are wild and red rimmed.

I don’t flinch away or even react as the bullets embed themselves in the wall six inches from my left ear. My teeth sink into the inside of my cheek as I take her in. Her chest is still heaving, pulling her black Henley shirt tight across her breasts. Her eyes are dull and haunted, her face pale as she regards me without a hint of emotion, and her long hair disheveled. “I’ve hit a dead end,” she says flatly, and drops the gun to the floor.

I’m in front of her before I even realize my feet are moving. Her body sways from side to side before she collapses to her knees. I lean my guitar against the desk and wrap my arms around her. She sinks into my embrace and as I tighten my arms, I feel her body trembling. “You need to leave this alone,” I whisper, and press my cheek to the top of her head. My heart feels like it’s stretching and shrinking at the same time as I hold her in my arms like this.

This stone cold killer. This unyielding queen. This meticulous assassin.

Beaten. Broken. Defeated.

Drowning in the ashes of her haunted past.

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