Page 68 of The Devil’s Feather

Where had he found a cup large enough to cover his…assets? Were there tailors for that kind of thing? Or did he need a blacksmith? I stared hard at his crotch, trying to make the determination.

Rafael had braided his hair and twisted it into a tight knot on the back of his head. It made him look even more hawkish and severe than usual. Catching my eye, he gave me a slight chin lift. I blew him a kiss.

Ross elbowed me and pantomimed cupping his chest.

“I know, right?” I was riveted.

“I like the cunty manbun. He’s got some thick thighs and calves too. Probably got a dick like a giant sequoia. Shit girl, you really are mountain-climbing.”

I snorted. If only he knew.

Ross blew out a breath that further puffed his round cheeks. “I still can’t believe he’s a musician and willingly fucks his hands up like that. Isn’t he, like, in his forties?”

“Forty-five, yeah.” Ish.

I hadn’t considered his age as a factor, but most of the fighters were young; maybe mid-twenties. Only a few looked to be in their thirties or older, and most of those had not fared well in these latest fights. Renewed worry roiled in my gut.

The opponent was a square-faced, barrel-chested bear of a man. If not for spending so much time with Rafael, this man’s size would have stunned me. He was easily over 6’5” and covered in thick body hair as dark as his beard and the buzzed stubble on his head.

I didn’t hear his name over the crowd’s noise.

“Whew, Daddy. They grow the bears extra-large around here.” Ross leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Can you tell your man not to fuck that one up too bad? I want him when he’s done. Now that’s husband material.”

“I’ll send him some brainwaves to be nice.”

The superheavyweights squared up. Rafael growled something too low for me to parse.

“Fuck ya motha!” the bear bellowed. Not as deep as Rafael’s voice, but still a very respectable growl.

“Ooh, and he’s Italian,” my friend cooed.

The moment the bell rang, the bear charged low at Rafael’s legs.

“Yeah, good choice,” Ross said sagely.

“Hey, whose side are you on?”

Rafael spun easily out of the way and kicked the man in the ribs hard enough for me to hear the smack over the crowd noise. The bear grunted and changed course, throwing haymakers. I gasped as one collided with Rafael’s jaw, but he used the momentum to drive his knee hard into the bear’s gut. The bear staggered, and Rafael struck him in the face with a lightning-quick jab-hook combo, nearly spinning the man’s head around. Damn, he was fast. Much faster than he looked.

Ross sucked in a breath as the bear went down on a knee. Rafael summarily kneed his opponent in the face, knocking the man’s head back. Blood spattered, and the crowd roared.

Not done yet, the bear lunged again at Rafael’s legs. Fear squeezed my lungs as he went down, but he landed well. Rolling adroitly, he untangled himself from his opponent and regained his feet. He dropped a brutal axe kick in the middle of his opponent’s back as the man tried to follow, flattening him on the mat. The bear rolled as well, grabbing at Rafael’s ankle, and got his face stomped for his trouble. I winced at the crunch of what was probably his nose breaking.

The bell rang. Round one was over. I wanted to run to him, but Rafael waved me away. He swished his mouth with water and spat into a bucket.

Round two. Rafael went on the offensive. Pelting the hairy man with blows, he backed the bear into a corner of the cage and trapped him. The bear landed a few solid hits to Rafael’s sides, but my composer gave no indication he’d noticed. No wonder he could shrug off the cane so easily.

The bear broke free and slammed his elbow into Rafael’s face. I let out a little yell, but Rafael cackled like a hyena, blood gushing from his nose. He retaliated with swift, solid body blows. The force of his punches rippled through the bear’s torso in shockwaves. Spittle flew from the man’s mouth.

Ross whistled, impressed.

The bear fell backward, and Rafael was on him in an instant. I cheered. He dropped face and body blows like hammers on his hapless opponent. More and more punches rained down; pummeling the man’s face into hamburger. The bear went limp. I tensed, dread coiling in my belly. Were they going to let Rafael beat this man to death? The crowd’s shouts and screams drowned out anything the refs might have said.

One of them finally nodded to the announcer, who bellowed into the megaphone, “TKO, Rafael Nazim wins another one!”

The crowd roared. The ref tapped Rafael’s shoulder. When Rafael shook him off like an annoying fly to land another punch, the ref waved frantically to the sidelines. Three huge men rushed into the ring and pulled Rafael off his unconscious opponent. He fought them, too. Just when I thought it would become the brawl he’d warned me about, Rafael calmed. The men shoved him out of the ring as medics swarmed over the fallen bear.

Rafael spat out his mouthguard and tore off his gloves. Pacing, he shook his head and smacked himself in the chest and arms with his fists. Almost as though he were in an argument with himself—or the lingering aggression. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. We kept our distance, like kids watching a hungry lion at the zoo.