Page 33 of Wicked Scorn
“Well, well, well,” he drawls, sauntering closer. “If it isn’t the Jeremiah Blackwood. Looks like you’ve been going at that bag pretty hard. Tired yourself out yet?” Definitely a freshman who’s heard my name and thinks he’s going to be the jackass to finally take down a Blackwood.
I don’t answer, just watch him warily. He’s muscular, I’ll give him that, but he’s no match for me. Not with the rage coursing through my veins.
He takes my silence as an invitation, circling me like a shark. “You know, I’ve always wanted to take on a Blackwood.” I roll my eyes, but he keeps talking. “See what all the fuss is about? And here you are, all tuckered out from beating up a defenseless bag.”
A harsh laugh escapes my throat. “Trust me, kid. You don’t want any part of this.”
But he just smirks, rolling his shoulders back. “Oh, I think I do. In fact, I insist.”
He lunges at me then, throwing a wild punch that I easily dodge. He’s fast, I’ll give him that, but he’s sloppy. Untrained. I could end this in seconds if I wanted to.
But I don’t want to. I want to make him hurt. I want to make someone bleed for what happened to Oakley. And this arrogant prick just volunteered.
“Hope you can keep up,” he says, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this is some sort of game.
“Keep up?” I echo, stepping into his space again, my voice low and dangerous. “Try not to drown.”
I let him come at me again, his fists flying in a flurry of motion. I block each blow effortlessly, toying with him. Let him think he has a chance. Let him taste the false hope of victory.
And then I strike, a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back. He staggers, dazed, and I press my advantage. A jab to the ribs. A hook to the jaw. Each impact sends a jolt of satisfaction through me, the beast inside me roaring its approval.
He’s on the ropes now of the ring we didn’t even get a chance to step into, barely standing. One more hit and he’ll go down. I raise my fist, ready to end it when he comes at me again. I sidestep, feeling the air shift where my head was just a moment ago.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I growl, the taste of violence alive on my tongue.
His eyes narrow, and he comes at me again, throwing combinations that might impress someone who has more to lose than I do. But not me. I block, I weave.
“Come on, Blackwood, show me—” His words shatter against my fist, connecting with his jaw, the sound echoing off the high ceilings like a siren call.
“Showing enough for you, now?” I spit out, my knuckles screaming because this fucking kid is too goddamn cocky for his own good.
He tries to rally, to summon some hidden reserve, but it’s useless.
“Fuck,” he gasps, staggering back. His guard drops. Rookie mistake.
“Language,” I tease with a smirk, even though my bloodsings with the same profanity. I advance, and he’s flailing now, drowning in the deep end.
My foot arcs through the air. It connects against his side, and he folds like a bad poker hand, hitting the floor with a thud that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.
“Lesson’s over,” I announce, my chest heaving, my fists still hungry for more. But it’s not satisfaction I feel—it’s emptiness, because no amount of fighting here can put a fucking band aid on what I actually need to be doing.
I want to protect her, to claim her, to make sure she’s never marked by anyone’s hands but mine. And God help anyone who stands in my way.
A hand clamps down on my shoulder, yanking me back. “Enough, Blackwood.”
I whirl around, ready to unleash my fury on whoever dared to fucking touch me. But I falter when I see who it is.
Declan Reed. The top MMA fighter at St. Charles. He’s not someone to mess with, even for me.
“Let it go, man,” Declan says, his grip on my shoulder tightening. “You’ve made your point.”
I glance back at my opponent, who’s slumped on the mat, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. The sight jolts me back to reality. Fuck. I nearly killed him.
I shrug off Declan’s hand and step away from the ring, my chest heaving. The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins, making my hands shake.
“I just…I needed to blow off some steam,” I mutter, not meeting Declan’s eyes. “He ran his damn mouth and got exactly what he asked for.”
Declan snorts. “Yeah, well, next time maybe don’t do that shit in front of people who can snitch. Bad form, bro.”
