Page 38 of Sinful
He's grinning.
Actually fucking grinning, blood on his scarred knuckles, dead eyes alive with something that looks like joy.
And I'm grinning back.
Because this—violence and adrenaline and survival—this is the only thing that's ever made sense.
The fight ends as fast as it started.
The drunks are on the floor or stumbling toward the exit.
Club members are standing down, breathing hard, checking each other for injuries.
Someone's calling for cleanup.
Someone else is checking to make sure no cops are coming.
And I'm standing in the middle of it all, knuckles bleeding, heart pounding, feeling more alive than I have in months.
Bravos is watching me again.
Different this time.
Like he sees me—really sees me—and likes what he's looking at.
"Nice punch," he says.
"You're not bad yourself."
The corner of his mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "Need to get some air?"
I should say no.
Should go find Elfe, do anything but follow this stranger into the dark.
But I nod.
"Yeah. Air sounds good."
We leave the bar and head around back.
The alley smells like garbage and stale beer.
I lean against the brick wall, trying to catch my breath, trying to slow my heart rate.
My knuckles throb—split skin, bruises already forming.
But man, it was so worth it.
"You've got a hell of a right hook," Bravos says, stopping a few feet away.
"I don't need a fucking white knight." The words come out sharper than intended.
"Didn't figure you did." There's amusement in his voice. Respect. "But I also didn't need that fight fucking up tomorrow's meeting. So, we both got what we needed."
I turn to look at him.
He's leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching me with those dead eyes that keep sparking to life when they land on me.
