seven
Anticipation for a boxing session burnt in Tristan’s veins as he walked to The Octagon. A chilly breeze blew from the north, and the humidity blurred the glow from the streetlamps. After the scare about Zeus and his anger at Winchester, he needed a good boxing session, or the twitch would become unmanageable.
Meeting Lady Effie again had set him on edge. For whatever reason, her simple and spontaneous behaviour kept intruding into his thoughts. Not to mention she’d saved Zeus.
His life was a back and forth between the damn urge to feel pain and thoughts of her kindness, smiles, and beautiful eyes.
When nervous energy consumed him as it did now, a fast walk to the edge of Chelsea was the best way to warm up his muscles and lower his anxiety.
His heart pounded, and tension rode him hard. He walked down seedy alleyways filled with drunken men and bored constables. The smell of urine singed his nostrils.
The Octagon was situated under a busy brothel, and he made his way through a queue of clients eager for another type of relief.
By the time he went down the stairs to the illegal bare-knuckle fighting ring, sweat damped his shirt and his body screamed for some pain.
One night years ago, when he’d finished working late at the factory where his first locomotive had been built, a group of anarchists had attacked him. They had been upset about him being a rich and powerful lord. No matter that he’d worked as hard as anyone to rebuild his family’s business after the financial disaster his grandfather had caused. A disaster that had nearly finished the Montcrests.
There had been five angry men against one that night, and he’d been barely alive when they’d left him bleeding in an alleyway. He’d spent months in a deep sleep, only to wake up confused and weak.
Since then, something had changed within him, and not just his sense of safety, or lack thereof, when he walked alone at night. Between a punch and a kick, something other than his ribs had cracked deep inside him, and darkness had poured out of that crack.
He’d started boxing seriously, become more guarded, and learnt how to fend for himself. Though his body had learnt that lesson quickly, his mind had learnt something else.
He craved the pain and the excitement of a fight, as an opium addict craved his drug. He needed to calm the twitch that nagged him, the urge to feel pain. If he ignored the urge, those five men would invade his mind, and then fear would grip him until he threw up and collapsed.
Inside the underground boxing club, the smell of sweat and blood brought immediate relief to his ache.
The fights in The Octagon didn’t follow many rules. The place didn’t rely on money or bets either. If someone wanted to wager a bet, that was their business, but The Octagon wasn’t for gambling. It was a place where those who wanted to fightcould do it without too many worries. No gloves. Bare-knuckled. Violent.
He walked along the border of the fighting pitch, searching for a free partner. Just watching the others throwing punches and hearing the grunts of pain charged him with violence. The need for pain grew in intensity to the point that his vision became dark at the edges.
Dark pillars surrounded the octagonal space where people fought. The hall was as big as a cricket pitch with light coming from gas lamps and a few braziers, reminding him of an illustration of the Elysian Fields he’d seen in a book. But he was no hero.
Humid, heavy air pressed against his chest, teasing his need for a release further.
He found a man leaning against the wall. “Are you free?”
The man sized him up. “I am.”
Tristan beckoned him to follow, eager to find a free spot. His fingertips itched, and blood pumped in his muscles.
They chose an unoccupied spot and raised their fists. The man grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth.
“One rule,” he said. “Don’t punch my face.”
“Why?”
“I like to stay pretty.”
The man shrugged. “Let’s start.”
After a good,bloody fight, there was nothing better than some peace and quiet. Tristan sprawled on his favourite armchair next to the fire in the sitting room, a glass of brandy in his hand. One might find the room bare, with only the essential furniture andno frills. But to him, the room was airy and spacious without burdens.
For no reason, he thought of Lady Effie’s eyes, how they brightened or darkened according to her feelings. She was a free spirit, the opposite of who he was. He was trapped by his unhealthy urges, his unbreakable duty to his family’s honour, and his burning desire for redemption because the Montcrests deserved to be remembered as a powerful family, not as traitors.
He lifted his glass to take a sip and winced. His body burnt and ached. The opponent he’d faced in The Octagon had been no amateur. Strong punches, quick footwork, and clever strategy had assured the man’s absolute victory.
Not that Tristan cared. He didn’t go to the ring to win a boxing match; he went there for the pain, and he’d got plenty, especially since one of the fighters had slashed his abdomen with a shard of glass. The cut was long but not deep, and it burnt. Weapons weren’t allowed in The Octagon, and the man had been kicked out, but not before leaving a memento for Tristan.
