Page 172 of Pucked Around and Found Out

I turn and head for my car. I can hear him following, the uneven rhythm of the moonboot on asphalt and I grit my teeth hard enough to ache. When I get behind the wheel he gets in beside me without an invitation, without hesitation, without a single shred of self-preservation.

“Get out.”

“Stop pushing everyone away,” He fires back without missing a beat. “You want her back? Then stop running from anyone who gives a shit about you.”

“I don't have time⁠—”

“Go to the ring.”

“I'm not⁠—”

“Carnage is there.”

Silence.

Complete, absolute silence.

“That cunt,” I say slowly, “is at my ring.”

Cas holds my gaze, steady and deliberate. “He was supposed to leave two days ago according to Harper.”

“Then why is he still in my town?”

“She said he won't leave until he talks to you.”

I don't remember the drive. One moment I'm in the parking lot and the next I'm pulling up outside the ring. The familiar smell of sweat, chalk and old leather hit me the second I push through the door. The place is mostly empty at this hour, just a couple of guys on the bags who take one look at my face and find somewhere else to be.

And there, standing in the center of the ring with his hands already wrapped, is Carnage De Santis.

He's not sparring. He's not training. He's just standing there, waiting, like he knew exactly when I'd arrive. Like he's been expecting this since the moment he decided to stay.

I don't say a word. I shrug off my jacket, pull my shirt over my head and grab the wraps from the table by the ropes. My hands move with the automatic precision of muscle memory as I wind the fabric around my knuckles tight, deliberate, the way you wrap when you're planning to actually hurt someone.

Cas lowers himself onto the bench by the wall. He doesn't try to stop me.

I climb through the ropes.

Carnage watches me approach with dark, unreadable eyes. He rolls his neck slowly, loosens his shoulders. He's built like a man who's had violence done to him and learned to return it with interest, and under any other circumstance I might respect it.

Right now I just want to hit something.

“You've got a lot of nerve,” I say quietly, “staying in my town.”

“Someone had to.” His voice is even. Infuriatingly calm.

I throw the first punch without warning, no circling, no posturing, just a straight right hook that he slips past with the reflexes of someone who's been in enough rings to see it coming. He counters with a left hook that grazes my jaw and sends a jolt of white heat through my skull.

Good.

Good. I need to feel something other than this.

We fall into a rhythm with no rules, no rounds, just two men who both love the same woman, in entirely different ways, taking it out on each other's flesh. He's good. Better than I expected. He moves with the kind of controlled aggression that comes from discipline rather than anger, and it pisses me off because I want him sloppy. I want him emotional. I want someone to match the chaos currently tearing through my chest.

I land a body shot that folds him slightly. He comes back up and cracks me across the cheekbone hard enough that my vision whites out for a split second.

“She cried.” He says it between breaths, matter of fact, like he's reporting the weather. “In the car on the way to the airport. Thought no one could see her.” Another exchange. I duck, he catches my shoulder. “She had her hand on her stomach the whole time.”

“Shut up.” I drive forward, backing him into the ropes.