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My lips curl dangerously.
That first punch is a gift. It’s fuel. I learned that the hard way at the age of six, when the “first punch” was an SUV t-boning my parents’ car at forty-seven miles per hour and pure terror being tattooed on my soul with each bounce and roll of the car until the lights went out.
Until I opened my eyes for the first time as an orphan.
My parents’ death taught me that first punch lesson. It was reinforced a few times over the years, like when my adoptive parents died as well.
But she was the one who carved that lesson into my fucking chest.
Eloise.
The first punch hurts the most.
It’s the best thing she ever did for me. And I’ve never forgotten it. In fact, I’ve made it my personal mantra. I let it flow through my veins with each throb of my pulse. Let it govern every thought. Every decision, personal or professional. Every case. Every move. Every fleeting, meaningless, single-serving “relationship” since.
The first punch hurts the most.
After that, it’s just numbness.
And numbness is fuel.
Peytor is almost on top of me as I slowly lurch to my feet. The crowd is screaming and waving cash and betting stubs in the crappy neon lights hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse. Dust, grime, and grit chokes the air as Peytor grins, mistaking my focus for being stunned.
Yeah, that’ll cost him.
He’s winding up for a wild hit when I exhale slowly and put the plans glowing right there in my mind’s eye into action.
Peytor flinches and jerks back to avoid the left hook that never actually comes. He swings a wild haymaker which I block easily with my left forearm as I slam my right fist into his ribs. I hear the wheeze of his breath leaving his lungs and dodge his wild counter. My left forearm bashes into his right ear, and I relish the dazed look in his eyes as the disorientating feeling of having his inner ear turned to scrambled egg stuns him.
His confusion is my friend. I hit his ribs again in the exact same spot, hearing the satisfying crack as one—possibly two—of them fractures.
His nose is next. Then his right temple. Then the left side of his jaw, which turns the lights out behind his eyes.
The uppercut is purely for show at this point, but I do it anyway, sending Peytor reeling backward before he hits the ground like a sack of bricks.
The crowd goes apeshit. Men roar and scream obscenities in seven different languages and fists wave handfuls of cash. Two fights break out.
I roll my shoulders and crack my neck as I walk over to the edge of the ring. Kratos is waiting for me, sighing and shaking his head.
“What?” I shrug as I squirt some water from my water bottle into my mouth, slosh it around, and spit it out again on the floor.
“You don’t feel bad about this at all, do you.”
I give him a look. “What, winning? Not really, no. Am I supposed to?”
My giant friend chuckles a deep, rumbling laugh. “I mean leading him on like that. Fencing bets against yourself through me.”
“What? I want to give them a show.”
“Oh, fuck off, Alistair,” he chuckles. “You wanted to double your winnings by putting that second bet on him getting you to the floor in the first round.”
“It’s not about the money, Kratos.”
As if underlining my point, I take my Rolex Submariner—the one literally owned and worn by Steve McQueen—from his outstretched hand and slip the two-hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar watch onto my wrist.
It’s not about the money. It’s about the rush of the fight. The adrenaline high of combat. The fucked-up therapy that comes with using violence to confront the demons of the past. And yes, the thrill of the gamble, fuck you very much Taylor and Gabriel.
But also…especially lately…it’s about her.
