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Declan's laughter booms through the gym, bouncing off concrete walls. "He's gotta learn sometime, doesn't he? Watched his dad die, so he might as well watch you go down too."
My fists clench, knuckles popping, as rage simmers beneath my skin threatening to burst. Swallowing back a retort, I force a breath through clenched teeth, trying to cage the fury. But inside, a tempest rages—doubt whispering sweet nothings, wondering if my body will betray me mid-fight, if my strength has truly returned or if it's just another lie I'm living.
"Feeling hesitant, Maldonado?" Declan's voice slithers around me, cold and taunting.
"Never," I spit back.
"Should've brought some flowers for your grave."
"Keep dreaming, O'Leary. It's gonna take more than a few punches to put me six feet under."
We circle each other, two predators sizing up the prey.
"Let's cut the crap and get on with it!" I finally bark, the words erupting from me like a gunshot.
"Thought you'd never ask," Declan sneers, and the air sizzles with anticipation.
Without another word, I lunge forward, closing the distance between us. My fist cuts through the air, aiming for glory or oblivion—it doesn't matter which—as long as it lands first.
Chapter Forty-Two
Blood pounds in my ears like the drumbeat of war, a frenzied rhythm urging me on. My fist arcs through the air with desperate fury, aiming to wipe his smirk clean off. But Declan—Declan's a ghost. He sidesteps with an ease that mocks my rage, and I'm stumbling forward, flailing for balance. My knuckles cleave nothing but the stale gym air.
"Ha!" His laugh booms around the ring, echoing off the walls. "You'll have to do better than that."
Anger burns hot in my chest, but it's doused by a cold splash of realization. This isn't some back-alley scuffle, no quick scrap where the first punch might end it. Declan’s movements are fluid, precise; not just brawn but brains behind those blows. He’s methodical, calculating—every step measured, every glance a prelude to violence. I can't outmuscle him; I need to outthink him.
Shaking off the misstep, I ground myself. The soles of my shoes grip the floor like roots seeking earth, anchoring me inplace. Pushing past the sting of humiliation, I take a breath and let it out slow. There's a chill clarity in this moment, a sharpening of senses as I watch Declan circle me, looking for an opening.
"Your turn," I mutter under my breath, as much to him as to myself.
We're orbiting each other now, two bodies locked in a dance of destruction. I take in his stance, the way his shoulders roll with each prowling step, the subtle tension in his arms—he’s coiled, ready to spring. I study the shift of weight, the feints and fakes he throws my way, trying to draw me out.
"Reading me, are ya?" Declan's voice is almost playful, but there's a razor edge to it. "Like a book, huh?"
"More like a bloody obituary," I shoot back, not taking my eyes off him for a second.
But I keep my guard up, my gaze flickering from his eyes to his hands, from his feet to his center of mass. Every fiber of my being strains to anticipate his next move, to predict the moment when all that power will unleash. And somewhere, in the midst of this dark waltz, I find my footing.
"Let's see if you dance as well as you talk," I say, voice low, a challenge thrown down in the space between us.
The moment stretches, elastic and tense as I keep my distance from Declan. My breaths are shallow. A jab here, a feint there—I'm not throwing to connect, just probing his defenses, testing waters dark with uncertainty.
"Come on, Constantino," Declan taunts, grinning beneath that beast of a beard. "Don't tell me you're scared of a little left hook."
"Scared?" I scoff, flicking out another jab like a snake's tongue tasting the air. "I've had scarier things than you for breakfast." But even as the words leave my lips, my eyes betrayme, darting to watch his left hand—a coiled viper waiting to strike.
We're shadows in motion, circling, sizing each other up. There’s no bell to save us, no breaks to catch our breath; just two men trapped in a silent symphony of violence. I can feel the burn in my muscles, the fatigue creeping up like ivy, wrapping around my limbs, threatening to drag me down.
"Getting tired, lad?" he chuckles, moving with a grace that belies his size.
"Never," I lie through gritted teeth, the taste of iron and determination filling my mouth.
His footwork is meticulous, but I'm starting to see the pattern now—the rhythm in his step, the slight hunch before he shifts weight. He’s an open book, if you know which pages to read. And I'm getting damn close to his final chapter.
"Nice footwork, O'Leary," I grunt, dodging a lazy swipe. "But you'll have to do better than that."
"Patience, Maldonado..." His voice trails off as we both pivot, the space between us charged with the unspoken promise of pain.
