Page 28 of Inflict

Whatever made spending money worth it.

Connor rocked back on his heels as Ivan pushed himself up to one knee, and used his other bent leg as a support to lean the majority of his upper bodyweight on. The Russian’s shoulders heaved with his breaths, but he never once showed his hands or turned to face Connor while he was still on the ground.

That alone made Connor twitchy.

Not wary, or even nervous.

No.

Feckin’ twitchy.

He was reminded again of why a lot of the participants to the fights didn’t like joining in when it was on the Russians’ turf.

Because the bastards were shady.

They would do anything to win.

Connor scanned the crowd again, looking for one person in particular. Danny. It was always good to have at least one person on your side on the outside of the cage, especially when a man had good reason to be concerned. Danny might have been able to cue Connor in on what to do, or how to end this entire charade, if he had been able to find him.

He couldn’t see his old mate anywhere.

And unfortunately, it seemed that Connor’s momentary distraction was exactly what Ivan had been waiting for—or perhaps someone else outside the cage had been watching for it, and clued him in.

Connor only saw a flash out of the corner of his eye, but it was enough for his attention to shoot back to Ivan. Just in time, too. The Russian came barreling at him with a knife in hand, aimed high and pointed directly at Connor. For a brief second, all he could see was the glint of sharp metal, and the way the dim lights above danced off the blade.

He liked knives.

He had a whole damn collection of them.

His fascination with blades couldn’t be contained.

Connor didn’t bring a knife to a bare-knuckle fight, though. The same way a man shouldn’t bring a gun to a knife fight. That behavior just wasn’t on the level.

He really wished he was surprised.

But he wasn’t. Not even a wee bit.

Most men would probably freeze at the sight of a Russian coming at them in an enclosed cage with a knife poised to kill, but Connor wasn’t one of those men. Knives didn’t frighten him, he loved them too much to be scared of the way the blade bit into the skin, and he knew all too well how a cut felt after it had been made. He’d taken a few slices from others who thought this particular trick would work on him in a fight, and even a slice from his father, back when he was younger.

More importantly, Connor respected knives and their cuts because he’d done it to himself, many times over, just to see how he would bleed.

Someone else would cower. Someone else would protect themselves from the knife, and risk the rest of their body to harm in the process.

Connor never moved.

Ivan likely thought Connor was frozen as he rushed him, but that was far from the case. Connor lifted his right arm, determined to make the choice of where the blade caught him first, while he figured out the rest of his plan. It worked—the blade sliced into his forearm, though Connor barely felt the cut at all. He felt the blood that came instantly, but not the cut. He was immune to that, now.

The Russian raised the knife again, but Connor was already reacting, having chosen what he was about to do with the few seconds he had. Ivan wasn’t going to give him a choice in the matter, not if he’d brought a knife into the zone with intentions to kill.

That just meant Connor would have to kill him first.

As Ivan’s knife raised, Connor’s fist slammed into the man’s right side, the one he knew would get the most reaction. Ivan’s roar of pain was punctuated by another swipe with the knife, and it happened to catch Connor just below his jaw.

He was already moving onto his next move, not able to think on the weapon for too long, before he hit Ivan again, hard enough to send him to his knees. That was exactly where Connor wanted him. There, he was weak. There, he had no openings. There, he was already dead.

Ivan looked up at the same time Connor’s bloodied fist, soaked from the cut leaking in his arm, smashed into his face. He probably could have left it at that, and walked from the cage with Ivan sprawled out on his back, damn near knocked out.

Maybe he should have.