Page 145 of Forbidden Romeo

My left hook is about to collide with his face when suddenly Connor’s hand is there. Catching my fist in his own and absorbing the impact.

“You stole her from me. For that, you’re going to pay with more than your measly life.”

I don’t have time to retaliate when Connor’s head suddenly smacks into my nose with a hair-raising crack. I go careering backward, staggering awkwardly to avoid landing on the floor.

Connor laughs and begins circling me again. “Man, am I going to enjoy taking you down.”

I lunge at him without warning. One, two, three tight, hard hits to the stomach, then a final blow to the face. He groans, and the monster inside me rejoices.

Just as Connor looks as if he’s about to move to offense, the bell rings to indicate the end of round one.

I pull away but can’t take my eyes off my enemy.

“Jack, come on. You need to concentrate,” I’m vaguely aware that Coach is talking to me as he lathers petroleum on my broken nose. “You’re too emotional.”

“I’m fine,” I snap back. I watch as the man in Connor’s corner—Arnie, I realize with a start—dabs a cold press to his busted lip.

As far as first rounds go, it’s been pretty evenly matched. Connor has clearly done this before; he’s no amateur, and his left hook stings like a bitch. But I’m faster, and I have a home-ground advantage.

The crowds around me chant my name. Padraic miscalculated; people like me more than they fear him. I can’t look up at the VIP box to see his reaction, not when I know who will be sitting behind him. But I imagine the grimace twisting his mouth, the anger in his eyes, and it energizes me.

The bell goes off for round two, and I stand immediately.

I waste no time. Uppercut, uppercut, retreat. I switch my stance from Orthodox to Southpaw to mess with him, and it works instantly. He’s thrown off balance, swinging wide in order to dodge my foot.

My fist collides with his eye with a satisfying crunch.

I know his orbital socket has gone before his face even begins swelling. There’s a piercing cry in the audience, but I can’t focus on it. Won’t let myself focus on it.

“You fucking asshole,” Connor says, already wincing in pain. He’s clearly suffering, and I can see the holes in his defense since I switched stances. He barely blocks another punch to the face.

So I hit him again.

My fists pound into his forearms relentlessly. With each blow, Connor has to fight not to step back—but slowly, I back him into a corner. I’m digging deep into my energy reserves to keep up the attack at this ferocity.

But it works.

Connor feels the rope at his back, and I see the panic in his eyes.

Got him.

I feign another blow to hit his defense but instead swing low. My fist hits him directly in the gut.

“Fuck!” He doubles over in pain.

It’s a simple knee-jerk reaction, but Connor falls for it. His guard drops entirely.

So I hit him again.

This time, the force of my right hook has him flying to the floor.

I stand over him as the crowds begin chanting my name. The ref is somewhere, counting down to the KO.

But all I can focus on is the rise and fall of his chest.

He’s still alive.

I fall to my knees, breathing heavily in and out. My mind doesn’t care how much it took out of me to bring this man down. Only that my mission isn’t complete yet.

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