Page 112 of Lamb

I pulled my jacket tighter around my neck.

“It’s hot, though,” the other purred, her feet happy tapping in the ten-inch platform heels. I stared down at them, impressed at her agility on the stilts.

I had not interacted much with the girls who hung around the club during my stay. Their faces had passed as blurs, neither of us having any reason to interact with each other. After the attack and during my recovery, they had been scarce on club grounds.

“Georgia.” The girl in the tiny bra turned to her, a disapproving frown on her face. “Those two both have old ladies now; no point in getting hot and bothered unless you want Anna to throw you down.Again.”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Just ’cos I can’t touch, don’t mean I can’t look.”

Bra Girl gave her a dismissive eye roll, but a small smile pulled on her full pouty lips.

I did not risk wedging myself through the tight circle; the wide bodies were a mountain for someone of my stature. I also had no standing or confidence to throw around like other ladies in the club to clear myself a path.

Instead, I pushed my glasses up my nose, peering around until I spotted the wooden picnic bench pushed up to one side, not too far from the commotion.

I clambered onto the table, the vantage point earning me a clear view above the three dozen heads.

My jaw gaped.

Of all the people I had expected Lamb to be fighting with, I had never guessed Wolf. He was an enormous mountain of a man; Lamb withered to the size of a twig next to him.

Silvery hair was pulled back behind his thick head, though much of it had already slipped loose, hanging around his sharp, square face, the ends brushing the salt and pepper beard growing thick and bushy over his jaw. He was also a victim of the shirt shortage, his chest and arms covered in a dense layer of dark hair, covering an impressive set of tight, bulging muscles.A mix of faded and new tattoos painted his skin in an elaborate display, but he was too far for me to make any of them out.

Lamb, on the other hand, stuck out like a sore thumb. I had seen him naked countless times, but something about this hit me differently. Compared to his brothers, Lamb’s skin was pristine. Except for the Black Angel’s emblem borne on his arm, he was a blank canvas. There was little body hair, and of what he had, it was blond and disappeared against the pallor of his skin. Not even a single scar.

I had observed the Black Angels over time; they were barbaric, bold, and badass. They were rough and fought with each other and their enemies. They all had scars to tell the tales of their battles, but not Lamb. Not even a nick on his finger.

It should not come as a surprise; Lamb did most of the club’s paperwork rather than the grunt work that came with such an … enterprise.

My surprise, however, was placed somewhere else entirely. Not so much by his looks, but by his actions. Lamb, though inferior on many different levels to Wolf, had not a single fresh scratch, or mark, or bruise. For every lunge and swing of Wolf’s large powerful fists, Lamb swiftly ducked, dodged, and dipped out of his way. He was efficient, using only the barest movements and minimal energy to avoid attacks. Even an amateur like me could tell that Lamb knew how to fight. And how to fightwell.

He took his time, teasing and taunting the lumbering giant. Wolf’s stamina seemed endless; fists swung through the air, neither losing precision nor speed as he chased Lamb’s shadow. At first, he missed his shoulder, then grazed his jaw, and then his fingers just skimmed past his side. Wolf was catching Lamb’s pace, growing closer and closer to landing a hit with each weighted swing.

The longer the fight dragged, the more time Wolf had to read Lamb’s movements. It was experience versus skill, and soon, the stalemate would end.

Lamb could dodge forever, but it would not win him the match, and with the speed Wolf was gaining on him, I doubted Wolf would let it drag on much longer.

As the thought crossed my mind, Lamb lunged.

His first offence shot him forward, grabbing the larger man by the neck. Then, using the momentum of his body weight, he dragged him down to his height.

Time stilled. Nobody moved, whispered, or breathed.

Lamb’s face was pressed against the side of Wolf’s, his lips pressed into his ear.

If Wolf’s face had turned red from physical exertion, it was now molten with pure rage.

A roar bellowed from Wolf’s chest, his mighty fist lunging for Lamb who barely managed to drop and duck out of the way. Rage carried Wolf forward, a barrage of fists flashing with furious fervent speed.

Lamb pulled back, niftily dodging the few centimetres he could buy to slide out of Wolf’s range.

They both peeled backwards across the concrete with Lamb on the defensive. The circle split at the seams as the men barrelled past it, people rushing to follow and bubble around the action.

I stared, frozen in the spot as the two men rampaged closer and closer to me. It was only as I spotted sweat flicking from their skin and smelt their hot breaths that I launched myself from the bench, my bones jolting with shock as I hit the concrete just as Wolf’s fist cracked into its target.

Wood splintered across the grounds, the table roaring in agony as it slid across the rough earth. Lamb’s dense body slammed into the lumber, his head bouncing.

It was over.

---