Nehro hovered by that side of the ring, his arms linked behind his back. Those piercing eyes found me among the shouting bodies. I didn't appreciate the anger in his frown. He'd wanted me to fail. The bastard had thought he'd had me tonight.
Well, too bad for him. Even if Huck lost, I was safe. I'd fulfilled the shitty, iron-clad bargain. One fighter per event, that was my part of the deal. Screw Reese... I'd come out on top.
You're just going to owe someone else, now.
My reality was cold and hollow. I buried it under my rush of excitement. The tension in the air had hit a peak now that the fighters were both facing off.
Shrapnel had wrapped his hands, the red tape foreboding. Many men had soaked his knuckles with blood. The guy was a brute, no mouth guard and missing teeth. Scars dappled his skin where tattoos didn't, and he'd shaved his head so that no one could grab his hair.
He didn't play around.
Huck is about to get destroyed. Knotting my hands in my dress, I migrated around the ring—shoving the screaming attendees aside—until I was able to get a better look at the green-eyed man. He was standing comfortably on the balls of his feet, fists low at his hips. I looked and felt more nervous than he did.
Again, I found myself appreciating his appearance. I wouldn't ever call myself shallow, but I had a type and as much as I loathed that—Huck fit the bill. His strong jaw had a slight indent, his cheekbones solid, ready to cut glass. Thick, blue-black hair, a dapple of stubble that gave him a relaxed appearance. Huck wasn't the kind of guy who worried if he was shaved clean.
How would that roughness feel on my skin?
He'd whispered in my ear before, touched me, rubbed close... but not once had I felt the scrape of his five o'clock shadow.
A bruise-colored heart pulsed on his jugular, dangling knuckles stamped in diamonds. It was funny. He'd been all over me earlier, but I'd been entirely too wrapped up in my battling emotions to catalog him so well.
I'm doing it now because—why? Eyeing the way his belt clung to his hips, I shivered. Because I know when he loses, he's going to look nothing like this ever again.
Shrapnel would pummel Huck into puree.
Nehro shouted, voice booming over the roar. “Shrapnel versus Huxton! Betting is closed, folks. Standard rules, no weapons...” He looked right at me. “And no mercy.”
There was a second where time stood still. I felt it, debated the things I could or could not do. Leaping into the ring would have been heroic. Foolish. It would seal my future.
It could save his.
Maybe, after I died and met my maker, they would consider that I'd at least thought about stopping this massacre. I didn't deserve that kind of consideration, though. There was no salvation for fuck-ups like me; in this world, or the next.
A bell rang, stopping my white knight dreams in their tracks. Shrapnel spit on the ground, fists held high by his square jaw. He'd never met Huck, but it was obvious to everyone that this new fighter in our ring hadn't come prepared. Who fought in jeans and boots, who didn't at least wrap their hands or put on gloves?
I'd have given him some, if I'd had any. I owned no gear that would fit him. I owned... nothing. Increasingly nothing, not even my own life.
Nehro held that in his spidery fingers.
The men studied each other as they circled. Huck's steps were fluid, slow, and never moving closer. He kept a constant gap between them.
Shrapnel was eager to get in that space.
Everyone screamed—delight for most, panic for me—when Shrapnel leapt forward. He propelled himself, a living projectile. A ham-sized fist sought out Huck's beautiful, unfairly handsome face.
I'd known this would go bad. I hadn't expected this bad, or so fast, but—fuck. I was a worse monster than Nehro. I'd put Huck in front of a god damn train, waved my hand and said Good luck!
I deserved what was going to happen to me.
Every molecule in the air vibrated expectantly. Huck's face, against all odds, didn't explode into fragmented red. Faster than seemed possible, he ducked low and rolled away. That alone had my mouth falling open. But he wasn't done.
Spinning on his knees, Huck threw his arms out and tackled Shrapnel around his thighs. The thick man toppled over, grunting in disbelief. With the upper hand, Huck wrenched a shoulder back and crushed his knuckles straight into his opponent's temple.
A hush lulled the crowd. It hung a mere second, then resurfaced as a tornado of cheers and fucking barking. They weren't human, they were animals.
Liquid pride flooded me. Holy shit! Cupping my palms around my mouth, I joined in the noise. Huck's jacket and shirt came along for the ride, his essence sinking through my nose and into my brain. My lungs thrummed with pure excitement. It wasn't possible. This wasn't possible.
But it was happening.
He was winning...
I was winning.
Not wanting to look away from the fight, Nehro still caught my eye on the opposite end of the pit. There was no disguising the horrific tilt to his tight lips. His entire aura smoldered, a nuclear flare that begged to leave me in ruin.
That man, he hated what was happening—hated that I was slipping away.
I lifted my head and gave him the biggest smile I could.
Shrapnel growled, shoulders rippling. More bear than human, he tore at Huck and threw him to the side. Wincing, Huck skidded to a halt on his knees. Those green eyes flashed, looking past Shrapnel—right at me.
My heart burrowed down into my stomach.
I wanted to scream, “Don't watch me, watch him!” I'd lost my voice, hands making a megaphone that I never used. What was Huck doing? He had to get up, Shrapnel was going to cave his brains in!
The giant man's skull gleamed in the overhead lights. He grinned, teeth crimson from his own blood. For the second time, he spat on the gritty floor.
Unlike Huck, Shrapnel never took his eyes off his target. He'd been meant to fight my ex. If that had happened, he would have lost. Reese, for all his flaws, was an expert fighter.
Now, facing down someone like Huck, Shrapnel was cocky. He was going to win, that realization gleamed in his dish-water eyes.
In a rush, air returned to my lungs. I pushed it out and up, begged my tongue to do something useful. “Huck!” I screamed, tearing at my vocal cords. I needed to be heard over the blood thirsty shouts. “Look out! Move!”
That stupid fucking grin of his. He'd die with it so firmly on his face.
Shrapnel rammed forward, reaching for Huxton. Slippery lightening, Huck darted aside at the last second. The momentum sent the other man flying, falling into the cement. A rabid animal, yet somehow entirely in control, my fighter—my fighter—jumped onto the broad back of his enemy.
Tattooed arms wound tight, sinking into Shrapnel's trunk-like throat from behind. The raspy gag as the man choked for air ricocheted around the ring. People pumped their fists, no longer obvious in who they cheered for.
I realized I was digging my nails into my palms. Shaking, I forced my fingers to unclench. I couldn't make my stomach do the same.
Sweat glistened along Huxton's spine. Every fiber flexed, I could count each of them. I did it, just to keep myself focused. They popped along his shoulders and forearms. Under him, Shrapnel strained... and in a great wave, went entirely limp.
It was happening for real. Huck had done it.
We'd really won.
My ears rang with the new roars of adrenaline. Howling, they became wolves under a full moon. Everyone was jumping, shoving, clapping or scowling. Money did funny things to people. So did violence.
Pushing through the mess, I darted over the chalk outline just as Huck let Shrapnel go. The big man was still, mouth open and drooling blood. He'd be fine. This was probably one of the least messy fights Shrapnel had come out of.