Page 129 of Intense
Everything in our world is a test. And this one?
We’re about to pass with flying fucking colors.
Ryder smashes a bottle on the bar and holds the jagged edge like a weapon.
The storm’s about to break, and I’ve never felt more alive.
Ryder swings first.
A bottle to the jaw of a man who’s stupid enough to lunge without backup. The crack echoes like a gunshot. Blood splatters across the bar.
And then it begins.
The room fractures into violence.
I move through it like water, my blade gripped tight in my left hand, the brass knuckles locked across my right. Precision. Control. No wasted movement.
A man rushes me from the side—beer gut, bad footwork, fists too high. I duck low, come up under his ribs with my right, the metal slamming into bone. He chokes on blood and drops.
Next.
Another one charges; he’s bigger and faster. I sidestep, let him stumble past, and hook my arm around his throat. The blade presses under his jaw as I drag him back against me.
“You picked the wrong pub, mate,” I mutter, and drive the blade straight up under his chin, severing whatever was still keeping him upright.
His body drops like a sack of bricks.
Behind me, Rowan is laughing, fully unhinged, a sound that would terrify any sane man. But these men? They’re not sane. They’re loyal to a dead tyrant and high on bloodlust.
Reggie moves like a ghost. A chair breaks across someone’s back, and Reggie doesn’t even flinch. He grabs the nearest guy by the jaw, slams his head into the wall twice, then turns to the next.
We’re not brawlers.
We’re predators.
Kane tackles a man over a table, fists flying. Ryder’s knuckles are dripping, face blank as he kicks someone’s teeth in. Theo watches for a moment, then finally joins the fight, cracking his knuckles like he’s been waiting for an excuse to hurt someone.
I let another man swing at me, let him think he’s landed something with his broken bottle, but I pivot, slam my knuckles into his throat, and sweep his legs out. He drops to the floor, gasping like a fish. I don’t hesitate. Boot to the neck. One, two, done.
A hand grabs my shoulder. Another reaches for my blade.
Mistake.
I spin, elbowing the first in the nose hard enough to feel the cartilage crack. Then I slice low across the second man's thigh, dropping him to his knees before driving the hilt of my blade into the side of his head.
It’s blood and fists and heat and the steady, focused rhythm of destruction.
And I feel alive.
Not because I like it.
Because I’m good at it.
“Finn!” Rowan shouts, tossing me a broken pool cue.
I catch it mid-air, flipping it in my grip. A man stumbles toward me, and I ram it into his ribs, feeling it splinter against bone. He howls. I jab upward into his throat, and he goes silent.
I wipe the blood on my coat and turn.
