That smirk twisted into a grin promising trouble. “Then I’ll simply come find you.”
She absolutely believed him.
*
Drake stepped upto his opponent as the crowd drew back in a slow, instinctive ripple, forming a tight circle around him. Ox stood waiting for him, cracking his knuckles, his face already bruised and covered in blood, grinning at him. Heh. Drake returned the smile with a faint curl of his mouth, the same one that usually sent lesser men reconsidering their evening.
He rolled his shoulders once, twice, thrice.
He could sense Violet staring at his back. He wanted to gauge her reaction when he fought. Wanted to absorb it. That was the only way to dig down to the truth of her.
Even the devil stepped back to watch.
Drake scoffed at himself. But the fact remained, he had faced countless opponents in this ring, had knocked men twice his size to the ground without breaking a sweat. But not one of them had ever made him want to be watched. Not one of them had ever made him conscious of the way he moved, the way he held himself, the particular image he cut against the roaring crowd. He was not a man who performed. Yet here he stood, acutely aware of the woman at his back.
And once again, she’d upended his expectations.
He doubted those pretty lips would ever confess. He’d be a fool to think her a simple woman, so he never had. Her friends were titled. She might even be the same as his sister-in-law—a lady on the run. The last thing he wanted was to expose her. However, the moment she stepped into his notice, all the usual boundaries ceased to matter.
He had thought she’d falter when he brought her back here. But for the moment she’d searched the crowd, the woman had kept her cool well. Too well.
Most definitely hiding something.
So if she insisted on slipping through his questions, fine. He’d simply learn what he needed another way. Always, his curiosity of her nagged at him. Would she root for him to fail? Win? Run away? Stay? Was she an enemy or a foe or simply, as she stated, an innocent party? No. He discarded the last.
Suspicious minx.
Ox thumped his fists together. “Back for another thrashing, Fury?”
Drake gave a humorless laugh, cracking his own knuckles. “You’d have to land a fist first.”
The man bared his teeth. “Tonight’s the night.”
“Every fight is,” Drake drawled. “Yet you’ve never managed it.”
They each took their stance and began their slow circle. This big blackguard was much bigger than him, but size had never been the deciding factor between them. They were evenly matched in skill.
Drake had never lost to him.
Never intended to.
Ox grinned, blood staining his teeth, and swung first—a heavy, arcing blow meant to rattle Drake’s bones. He ducked, the blow skimming his jaw. Too slow. Always too slow on the first strike. “Was that a swing or a breeze?” he taunted, countering with a quick jab to the man’s ribs, another to the gut, each one solid enough to make the giant grunt.
Good. Feel it, you blackguard.
Drake retreated, stealing a quick covert glance toward the fringe where Violet stood, still as a statue, knuckles white around his discarded shirt, eyes locked on him. Not horrified. Not impressed either. Something in between.
Dissecting me, no doubt.
An old spark flared to life in him—a spark he’d not felt in years.
In his youth, every fight had been a test he set for himself, a way to measure what he was made of. He hadn’t chased that edge in a very long time. And tonight, the edge prowled under his skin. Ox lunged again, and Drake sidestepped, letting the man stumble, then caught him with a sharp right that snapped the man’s head to the side. The crowd roared.
Violet’s presence pressed at the fringes of his awareness. Every step he took, every strike he chose, every dodge, it all sharpened under the knowledge that her eyes were on him.
It made his blood stir.
He rolled his neck, lifted his fists, and beckoned his opponent with the faintest curl of satisfaction tugging his mouth. His next blow landed square on Ox’s jaw, pain shooting up his hand. A damn pleasing pain.
