Page 25 of Crown of Smoke

Who? I will the younger man to ask the other one who the traitor is. But the first match begins, pulling the men’s attention away from gossip.

I put out my phone, hoping I look like I’m texting as I jot down what I just heard. Then I turn my attention to the men in the boxing ring.

The two fighters circle each other and the crowd surges forward, their cheers sounding hungry for violence. The energy it creates is palpable and unsettling.

The larger fighter lands a punch that echoes through the warehouse. His opponent staggers but stays upright. Blood sprays from his split lip, drawing cheers from the spectators.

"Finish him!" Someone shouts.

The brutality escalates. The sound of flesh hitting flesh. An occasional crunch or crack suggesting the breaking of bones. But there's no referee stepping in to check on injured fighters, no doctor standing by that I can see. Just raw violence for entertainment.

A sickening crack fills the air and the smaller fighter crumples, gasping for breath. His opponent doesn't stop. Fists rain down on his unprotected head while the crowd roars their approval.

"Oh, God.” Is this a fight to the death?

Finally, the man goes limp, hopefully not dead. Two men drag the unconscious fighter from the ring. His head lolls at an unnatural angle as they disappear into the shadows.

My eyes find Flynn across the room. He's watching the scene with cold calculation, his muscles tense as he wraps his hands. It occurs to me that with as much progress humanity has made over the millennia, man’s thirst for violence hasn’t evolved. This isn’t much different from Roman gladiator days. And Flynn, my mysterious protector, is like Daniel, walking into the lion’s den.

The announcer's voice booms through the warehouse as Flynn steps into the ring. My breath catches. He moves with controlled power and deadly grace. His opponent towers over him, but Flynn’s expression remains neutral, those blue eyes focused and sharp.

“I think that’s the guy who took on four of Kean’s men,” the younger man says.

“No. That’s just a rumor. No way he’d be breathing,” the older one says.

A part of me wants to verify the rumor, but it’s one truth I feel would be better kept hidden. In fact, for the first time, I have a kernel of doubt about this story. Yes, I desperately want to prove myself as a journalist and expose the Keans, but I don’t want to risk people’s lives. Especially not Flynn’s.

10

FLINT

Istep into the ring and the crowd's energy surges, a mix of jeers and cheers washing over me. I scan the crowd, my gaze finding Lucy instantly, her blue eyes wide as she watches from ringside. Even in this dingy warehouse filled with Kean thugs, she stands out like a beacon. She doesn’t belong here. She’s too clean for the ugliness of this world. Of my world. She must know it too if the fear etched across her face is any indication.

I should forfeit and get her out of here.

The bell rings, and it’s still echoing when a fist crashes into my jaw. Pain explodes across my face, my head snapping sideways. I stumble back and the crowd roars.

Stupid. I let myself get distracted by Lucy, forgot these bastards fight like their bosses operate, no rules, no honor. Just whatever it takes to win.

My opponent advances, confidence radiating off him in waves. "That wake you up, pretty boy?" He circles left, already loading up another right hook. "Thought you'd waltz in here and show us how it's done?"

There’s been a rumor about my having kicked the ass of four of Kean’s men. Of course, the Keans deny it. After all, it looks bad for them. But the rumor is all that’s needed to put a target on me, at least in the ring. I suspect this guy is hoping to boost his profits by taking down the man rumored to have beaten the shit out of four Kean men.

I shake off the hit and spit blood onto the canvas. My jaw throbs where he tagged me, but the pain helps sharpen my focus. Time to remember who I am, what I am. I'm not just some street fighter looking to make a name. I'm Flint fucking Ifrinn, and these people will pay for what they took from me.

I roll my shoulders back, letting that familiar rage simmer through my veins. This punk thinks he caught me off guard? He has no idea who he's dealing with.

My opponent throws another hook, but this time, I'm ready. I slip under it, driving my fist deep into his ribs. The impact jolts up my arm as he grunts in pain. Before he can recover, I follow with an uppercut that snaps his head back.

The crowd's jeering shifts to excited shouts. These vultures don't care who wins. They just want violence. And I'm about to give them a show.

He staggers back, eyes wide with surprise.Didn't expect that from the pretty boy, did you?I press forward, cutting off his retreat. My next combination lands clean, left hook to the body, right cross to the jaw.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" I growl, landing another body shot that doubles him over.

The crowd's roaring drowns out everything else as I unleash hell. Right cross. Left hook. Uppercut. Each punch is precise, calculated, fueled by a darkness I usually keep locked away. But here, in this ring? I let it loose. I need to let it loose, not just to release the hatred coursing in my veins for the Keans, but also, the nearly unbearable tension that builds when I’m around Lucy. All of it, I’m letting go on this asshole.

He crumples to the canvas after a particularly brutal combination. The crowd starts to count, but we all know he’s staying down.

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