Page 166 of A Little Broken

“Tap out or pass out,” I repeat. I turn back to the fight, my pulse thumping faster and faster with every passing second. Stay. Calm. “Perfect.”

Killian winces from another of Paxton’s solid hits but pushes forward, unleashing a flurry of strikes until Paxton is backed up against the edge of the mat. Using his forearms to protect his face, Paxton blocks Killian’s fury, then slips under a right hook and lands an underhook, following up with a flying knee attempt that grazes Killian’s temple.

“Holy shit,” I murmur.

Paxton’s fast. And Roman’s right. This clearly isn’t his first rodeo. Maybe all those bruises were worth earning after all.

The crowd’s roar is deafening, but I swear I can still hear Killian’s curse as he swings out his leg, sweeping Paxton to the ground.

“Holy shit,” I repeat, my stomach plummeting. “This is bad. This is bad. This is bad.”

“He’ll be fine,” Roman promises.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, my own anxiety ratcheting higher with every passing second while the crowd chants around us. The fighters roll on the ground, each fighting for the upper hand, until Killian lands a jab to Paxton’s face. His head snaps back, and I cover my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Using raw strength, Paxton rolls out from beneath Killian’s grasp and stands up, giving me a perfect view of the welt forming above his left eye. Blood trickles from his eyebrow, but no one even bats an eye. Why is no one batting an eye? Oh, that’s right. Because no one’s crazy like I am. Chest heaving, Pax winds up for another hit, striking Killian’s nose. The crowd gasps, and so do I before Killian counters with a brutal elbow, and Paxton’s knees buckle, but he manages to stay up. It isn’t enough, though. It isn’t enough because in one swift move, Killian flips Paxton into a chokehold, and my legs buckle.

No, no, no, no, no.

Paxton’s face turns red, his eyes bulging as he scrambles in Killian’s grasp, making my stomach flip in on itself.

“Roman,” I seethe, choosing to show him my fury over my crippling fear. Heaven forbid I give someone a glimpse into my mental breakdown or how close I am to losing my shit. “If you don’t get in there?—”

“Fucking watch,” Roman scolds. “Your boy has him right where he wants him.”

“Bullshit—”

The rest of my words get lost on my tongue as Paxton lifts Killian and slams him onto the ground, breaking free. Twisting around, Paxton charges forward with a final combination—jab, cross, uppercut. And it’s strange. Watching the lights go out. The way Killian’s face goes slack and his legs fold beneath him. Paxton’s opponent collapses onto the mat, buckling like a soda can as the crowd loses their fucking minds.

Everyone but me. Instead, I simply stand there, my hands at my sides, my vision blurring, my stomach swirling. I feel like I just stepped off the most vomit-inducing rollercoaster. Like I just walked through a serial killer’s house. Like I just escaped death. Now, I’m numb.Empty. And numb.

Stepping forward, the referee raises Paxton’s battered fist into the air, declaring him the winner while I stand on the sideline, reeling.

Pax waves at the crowd, taking a quick bow like he just finished playing a show in Amsterdam before striding toward me like he’s on top of the world.

Part of me wants to hit him. To yell and scream at him for making me feel this way. The other part wants to kiss him and pull him close and take away every ounce of pain he must be feeling after a fight like this. It’s strange and confusing and I have no idea how to respond or react or…anything at all. I wonder if I would’ve had this response with someone else. Iwonder if I would’ve had this response if Archer had never died in the first place.

I wonder if I’ll be normal—or sane—ever again.

But there’s one thing I do know, and it’s that I need to get my shit together…now.

“Hey, Birthday Girl,” Pax murmurs. His bloody knuckles brush against my chin as he nudges my head up. “What’d you think?”

Don’t freak out.

I paste on a smile. “I think you owe me another chocolate shake for scaring the shit out of me like that.”

“Is that right?”

I smack his chest, forcing my lungs to dispel any pent-up oxygen.

With a laugh, he grabs his discarded T-shirt from me, tucking it into the back of his pants before he hooks his sweaty arm over my shoulder and tugs me into his side. “I believe this is the part where you tell me I did good.”

“You scared the crap out of me,” I repeat.

“And?”

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