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I’m unwrappingmy gloves at the end of the day when he strides over to me and cups my face. I stiffen, my eyes shooting around. I can feel the press of his eyes as they inspect every dent, bruise, and healing gash.
"Your last fight”—he roughly turns my cheek to better view the bruising under my right eye— “you had a knockdown. Did you blackout?”
"It was a flash.” I shrug under his intense gaze. “My knees barely hit the canvas.”
"But they did. And that blue below your socket is not from an abrasion to your eye, my boy. That's inside. That’s from higher. You should have an MRI before your next fight."
"Yeah. Yeah. You want me to have them more than necessary. Don’t think I don't know that. If I was a dumb shit, you wouldn’t care if I got punch-drunk.”
"But you're not.” He releases my face. “So, I do.”
The sliding doors to the gym open and the wind carries aggression as someone barks, “Butcher! I saw my brother’s face!”
Gnawing at the bit to share a few swings with Grayson’s older brother—midweight champ in the District and a complete douchbags—I turn to acknowledge Chuck Young who is storming across the gym, scornful eyes unwavering from mine.
I curl my lips, his fury charging him towards me. Then I watch in almost slow motion as his homed gaze hits the back of Luca Butcher’s head. Slowing his aggressive stride, he realises I’m not alone.Too late, dipshit!
I don’t smile at that.
My pulse races. His disregard for me then hesitation around my father, forces red-hot anger to the tips of my fingers, driving them into my palms, making tight fists by my sides.
What?
I’m not scary enough for you, Young?
Heat hits my ears. Unable to stop myself, I round my dad and take long, meaningful strides over to the dipshit inmygym. It saysHome Of The Legendon the banner, fucker!
I growl. “What was that,Charles? You have something to say to me?”
Chuck and I collide an inch from each other, bodies pulsing with aggression, a slither of space parting us, air practically hissing between our rage-fuelled torsos.
“You broke my brother’s nose, Butcher,” he grounds, his hazel eyes drilling holes through mine. And I can feel my father’s presence, but he’s not coming for us, watching and waiting. Judging me. I don’t give a shit. I know he’ll want me to rise above it. To walk away. Smile, even. That’s not me.
“I’ll break yours,” I hiss, more pissed off than I should be, butIdeserve his damn fear. I’ll prove it, too. I’ve fucking earned the fear in this city, in this gym. “If you like, you can match each other! If you like, I can make you piss yourself, too.”
“I’ll fight you one day, Butcher.” He grins with perfectly maintained teeth, white and glistening, straightened to artificial perfection—rich-boy teeth. “And the city will see you drop. Tap out. And give up!”
“No, Young.” I laugh cruelly. “You’ll swallow twenty thousand dollars’ worth of pearly whites Mommy and Daddy paid for.”
“You don’t scare me,XanderButcher.” He grins, and the taunting curve is at odds with what I deserve from him. Is he really not the slightest bit concerned I could crush his skull with my bare hands?
I twitch, edging closer, barely restraining myself from acting on that vicious imagery.
He goes on, “Now, your brothers might stand behind you, protect their little brother, always getting in trouble, always misbehaving. I remember you in high school. You’re still the same little boy trying to be like them.”
I see red. Hide it barely. “Pretty sure you’re the little one, mate!” I hiss.He’s not my mate.“You’ll need some extra kilograms to fight the legend.”
He laughs. “You should be taking some time to prepare yourself there,Legend.In the ring, you’ll be mine.” He leans up, slightly shorter than me, until I can feel his sweat mingling with mine. “Maybe, I’ll make you piss yourself. Maybe,”—his smile widens—“I’ll kill you in front of them. And they’ll fake grieve you just like they did your bitch of a mother. They’ll be happy to have rid themselves of the burden that you are and send you off for a cuddle with her.”
That’s enough.
Wanting to reach in and draw out his heart, wanting to thrust my fist into his abdomen and spill his guts, fuming he’s challenging me in my own damn gym, I jab him low, deserving a groan and getting a wicked howl. He curls inward. But not for long. He comes at me. Thrusts right.
I duck to the side, my ear taking a graze from his knuckles, but I’m back and centre before he regains his stance. I study him.
His steps.
