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Someone had better tell me what the hell was going on—and soon. Where was Jack? I couldn’t see the octagon through the throng, but I assumed it was somewhere in the middle of the room.
Instead of answering, Kieran guided me through the horde toward the center of the basement. As we neared, I could hear blows being thrown and masculine grunts in response. Jack was handing someone’s ass to them.
When we reached the front, the blood drained from my brain.
Jack was fighting, but it wasn’t the bout I was expecting to see. His face was coated in thick blood. His wrapped knuckles were shimmering with the substance, so much so that it dripped down his forearms and off his elbows. His ribs and toned abdominals were beginning to show welts. His worn jeans were stained in a deep red and his bare feet were flat on the ground, a clear sign of fatigue.
Jack’s opponent, on the other hand, showed no signs of slowing down. He had a few facial abrasions and bruises on his ribs but looked healthy by comparison. He danced circles around Jack, who struggled to keep his enemy in his line of sight.
I’d only been watching for a few seconds before the Russian landed another blow to Jack’s face. Jack staggered backward, arms dropping to his sides in an attempt to steady himself. As he stumbled, the Russian advanced. Jack recovered and shoved the man off him, releasing himself from a hold on the fence surrounding the octagon.
I’d seen Jack take a hit before, but he was almost pulverized. The previous times I’d watched him, the fights had been manned by a third party—someone who called time to give the participants a break—but there was no referee in sight. And if there wasn’t an official, that meant the men brawled until a knockout, or worse.
“You’re gonna have to go in there and get him,” Kieran said, his voice betraying genuine concern and raw fear. Not just from tonight—it was a culmination of everything. As Jack’s control slipped, Kieran’s worry grew. It was like looking in a mirror. Kieran recognized the same fright in my eyes as well.
A flash of movement caught my attention. The Russian let his fist fly, hitting Jack in the same spot as before. Jack hunched like a wild animal, a wide grin overtaking his bloodstained mouth. Jesus Christ. He was letting the man beat the shit out of him. And he was enjoying it.
I kicked my heels off, my bare feet sifting through spilled beer and discarded blunts. “Give me a lift.”
Kieran bent down, interlocking his fingers. I stepped onto his hands and he stood, boosting me toward the top of the fence. I grabbed the rail and hoisted myself over, landing on the rubber surface inside the ring.
The fighters were unaware of my presence, but the crowd erupted in a mixture of boos and encouragements. Half of them wanted me out of the octagon, while the rest urged me to join the men in battle.
I circled the outer edge of the ring, well behind the Russian. There was no hope of taking him down, but that wasn’t why the three O’Connell men brought me here. They knew there was no one apart from myself that could get Jack’s attention long enough to talk him out of whatever the hell he was doing. I’d done it once before at Christmas when Jack had tried to kill his father, my voice cutting through his rage.
It was horrifying to see him so bloody and beaten, but I wouldn’t let myself look away. If my gaze called even half as much attention as his did to me, he would know I was here.
And he did.
Jack’s unfocused eyes shifted toward me, looking over the Russian’s shoulder. The smile curving his lips disappeared, his expression turning to stone. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Angry to see me? Happy? Panicked?
The Russian—noticing Jack was unaware—aimed a high kick. The top of his foot met the side of Jack’s head, knocking him straight to the ground like he was nothing more than a bag of sand.
The crowd erupted in cheers. The Russian lifted his arms above his head, chest heaving with the effort of his victory. He turned, triumph fading to confusion when he saw me in the ring.
Ignoring him, I ran toward Jack, a scream clawing at my throat. It looked as though that kick had enough force to break his neck. I knelt, laying my head on Jack’s chest. I couldn’t hear his heartbeat over the turmoil, but his bruised ribs rose.
He’s breathing.
Mick appeared on Jack’s other side, removing my hands so he could examine his best friend, probe him for injury. Mick had been a medic in the army. He was the person Jack turned to when wounded. It wouldn’t be easy to explain his various injuries to the average doctor. Most would file a police report if Jack entered a hospital looking like he did now.
“Let’s get him out of here,” Mick yelled.
Eoghan and Kieran made their way into the ring as the rabble congratulated their winner, not paying us any mind. Money was transferred back and forth. More than a few men were bitter, having bet on Jack to win.
It took all three of them to carry Jack’s limp body up the stairs. My stomach lurched as his head lolled toward the ground. After resecuring the straps of my heels, I ran behind our group and held Jack’s thick curls in my hands, supporting his head.
In the barrel room, Jack stirred. Mick had us pause, setting him on his feet. The men held him there for a moment as his eyes fluttered half-open, his head shaking as if he could rattle his concussion away.
“M’fine,” Jack said groggily, pushing himself away from his brother and lieutenants. He was…laughing as he crossed the room, using the barrels for support. The insane sound made my chest constrict. He walked with a slight limp, holding the side of his ribs where the bruising was centered.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Kieran roared, anger winning out over concern once he saw his brother was alive and on two feet.
We followed Jack to the dirty alley behind the restaurant. He staggered, muttering incoherently to himself, as though he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone.
“Hospital?” I suggested to Mick, who was nearest and knew the extent of his injuries best.
“He’s not concussed, just fucking hammered.”
