“Hm?” Santiago’s gaze landed on Mancini and he sent Ardan a smirk. “Jealous?” Ardan sent him an unimpressed look, making Santiago laugh. “That’s Hoor.”
“Hoor? Like whore?” Ardan forced back the snort that threatened to rise. “Is he dyslexic? Last time I checked, that’s not a Norse god.”
“Blind, actually. Damian was born blind, and when he joined the Lords as a prospect and had to choose a nickname, some of the guys decided to fuck with him.” Santiago grunted with laughter. “Told him it was spelled with two o’s and pronounced hoe-ur. Poor bastard believed them and he’s been Hoor ever since.”
Ardan shook his head. He shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen his fair share of motorcycle clubs, and they loved messing with each other. “I never expected the Lords to accept blind members.”
Santiago shrugged. “We don’t. Damian’s an exception. He’s Odin’s son.”
“I thought Odin’s son was Loki?” Ardan replied, surprised. He’d met Loki the last time he’d visited the clubhouse. Smart kid, but Ardan thought he’d never have lasted if he hadn’t been Odin’s son because he was as mischievous as they came, and he focused more on creating trouble than he did on the job. Ardan thought his name suited him well.
“Nah. Loki’s kind of like the adopted son. His father was one of the first Lords, and him and his wife died when Loki was a kid. Odin took him in.”
That made sense. Ardan turned back to watch the two men in front of them tussle. There wasn’t much of hand-to-hand combat.
When the fight in front of them finally finished, both men were bleeding profusely from their faces. A few bruises would pop up overnight. Ardan had lost sense of time and he didn’t know how long they’d been fighting for, but the sun was gone and the moon hung high in the sky.
“Who’s next?” Odin thumped his chest, grinning like a man enjoying the sight of all the blood.
“Me.” Mancini’s voice made Ardan suck in a deep breath. He had a feeling he already knew what was about to happen when the Italian stepped forward, passing his suit jacket off to Hoor. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the muscles in his forearm tensing with the movement, and Ardan’s gaze latched onto them. He had a weakness for arms. All it took was the reminder that it was Mancini he was staring at and his attention jumped back to his face.
“Who are you going to fight?” Odin asked, but he glanced at Ardan as though he already knew.
Mancini cocked his head and grinned.
Ardan was already slipping off his own jacket and handing it to Santiago. “Don’t let anything happen to that. It’s expensive.”
He snorted in response but nodded anyway.
Ardan rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the circle. Cheers and hisses washed through the crowd, but Ardan shut them out like George had always taught him.
“Patience and focus have a lot of rewards, and when it comes to fights, you need both. If you react too quickly, you’ll lose a win.”
He cranked his head to the left then the right to get any kinks out of his neck and then cracked his knuckles, walking to the spot with an X already marked out with white masking tape.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Mancini?” Ardan asked, mouth curving to the side in a half smirk. “You can back out.”
“I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time,” Mancini said in a low, deep tone that made Ardan’s belly warm with excitement. Fistfights always thrilled him this way, though with Mancini, it was different. He craved the feeling of the bastard’s cheek beneath his fist, to hear the crush of his bones beneath his knuckles.
Odin’s gaze slid from Mancini to Ardan, his expression pleased. The silver strands of his hair glittered under the rising moon as he raised his hand in the air between them. He wanted this as much as they did. Maybe this was his plan all along, to see them go at it with fists in the Lords’ fighting ring.
When his arm sliced through the air, neither of them moved. Ardan raised his fists, but kept himself still as he waited for Mancini to make the first move. Mancini didn’t. The crowd jeered, some of them hooting loudly, but still Mancini didn’t come at him. He kept still, shoulders loose, not like a man who was about to have a physical fight. Like Ardan, he had his curled hands raised in front of him, but he looked too relaxed, a smarmy smile caressing his mouth.
“Come at me, Murphy,” Mancini whispered, just loud enough for Ardan to hear over the cheering bikers and the hangarounds. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
Ardan swallowed around the rage that rose in his throat. Need for blood tightened at his chest and his hands shook. Mancini made him insane with anger, and even though George’s words echoed in his mind, Ardan was anything but calm or patient in that moment, especially with every second that passed between them without either moving.
“One of you motherfuckers better do something, or I’ll end this fight,” Odin snapped, lip curling into a snarl.
Ardan exhaled, centering his attention on his target in front of him, and then shoved himself forward. Mancini dodged Ardan’s punch and danced out of the way of another jab. Ardan shifted with him, and Mancini rolled across the grass to avoid Ardan’s attacks. In the process, Mancini hooked his arm around the back of Ardan’s knees, sending him tumbling to the ground. Mancini pounced on top of him, but Ardan kneed the other man in the gut and rolled them until he took the advantage point, his knees lodged into either side of Mancini’s hipbones.
The punch he threw this time made contact and Mancini’s head flung to the side, blood spraying across the grass. The crowd’s cheering grew, but Ardan didn’t have time to focus on it because Mancini’s knee landed on his ass and Ardan flew over his head, the bastard following him in the roll so he was on top again. Mancini’s fingers dug into Ardan’s neck, blocking his airway and making him gasp. A fist landed in his eye and Ardan’s world tilted, a throbbing emanating from where the punch had landed.
They went on like this for at least ten minutes or more. Ardan wasn’t sure how long the fight lasted, but fists landed against skin, and into guts. At one point, Ardan managed to snap Mancini’s arm behind his back, but when Mancini twisted out of the hold, he’d put Ardan into a headlock.
As time ate away, the crowd’s yelling dwindled and it was obvious they were getting bored. Every time either Mancini or Ardan got into the perfect position to win, the tables were turned, and neither were going to wave the white flag.
Finally, Odin spat out something Ardan couldn’t hear because his ears blasted with white noise. He was too busy kicking at Mancini’s leg, dislodging Mancini’s stand over him. Then hands grabbed at Ardan, but they didn’t belong to Mancini because two other men grabbed him, dragging him away from Ardan.
