Chapter 20 Augustine #2
He kept pressing, backing me toward the edge.
Every hit he threw was calculated for maximum pain, minimum effort.
It wasn’t pretty—no fancy moves, just pure brutality.
I blocked what I could, ducked the worst of it, but every second punch got through.
My ears rang, my teeth went numb, and I tasted iron every time I breathed.
Saint didn’t stop talking. “This all you got? I heard Melissa likes it rough. Maybe she’ll show me after you’re dead.”
That one stung, and he knew it. He ramped up the pressure, alternating between head shots and gut punches.
He slammed a knee into my thigh, then raked his elbow across my eyebrow, splitting it wide.
More blood, more cheers. I almost lost my balance, but the roar of the Scythes behind me kept my feet moving.
I had to change the rhythm. I faked a stumble, let him close in, then snapped a low kick into his taped knee. There was a satisfying pop and a grunt as he buckled, but it wasn’t enough. He recovered instantly, grabbed my arm, and hip-tossed me into the ground.
The wind left my lungs. I rolled, expecting him to follow with a stomp, but instead he waited—taunting me to get up. I did, slow and shaking. My right eye was swelling shut, and the pain in my nose had gone from sharp to dull and back again.
From the sidelines, I heard Damron bark something. Seneca was silent, but I caught his eye—just a flash, but enough to say don’t you dare fucking quit.
Saint came at me again, this time with a wide left meant to end things.
I ducked under, came up inside his reach, and hammered three quick body shots into his ribs.
I felt one of them give, a satisfying crunch.
He roared, more in rage than pain, and caught me with an uppercut that rattled every tooth in my head.
I went down, but not out. The dirt was cool against my cheek. I clawed back to my feet, legs shaking. I was leaking blood from at least three different places, but I was still here.
Saint spat at my feet. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?” he said.
“Bad habit,” I croaked.
He circled me, arms loose, head cocked like he was already bored. But I saw the hitch in his breath, the way his left hand was curling a little slower. I’d gotten to him.
I feinted with my left, then lashed out with a right kick straight to his kneecap.
This time it folded. He dropped to one knee, and I smashed an elbow into the back of his skull.
He went flat, but not for long. He rolled, grabbed my ankle, and wrenched it hard.
Pain shot up my leg, but I used the momentum to stomp down on his hand.
I heard the knuckles break. Four clean pops. He howled, tried to get up, but I kneed him in the face, a full follow-through that drove his head back into the dirt. He looked dazed, but not done.
The crowd was frenzied now—Scythes and Leatherbacks both screaming, the line between enemies blurred by the need for blood.
I caught a glimpse of Melissa, standing at the front of the Scythe pack, her face white as bone, knuckles locked around Seneca’s forearm. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t blinking. Just watching, breathing for me.
I tried to smile, but my lips wouldn’t work.
Saint spat blood and used his good hand to get up. He was a mess—nose broken, eye puffy, ribs definitely cracked. But he was smiling, a lunatic grin. “You fight dirty,” he said.
“That’s the job,” I said.
He charged. I braced, ready, but he faked me—dove low and picked me up, hoisting my body over his shoulder like a ragdoll. The world spun. He slammed me down, and something in my shoulder ripped. I screamed, a sound that was half rage, half surrender.
He straddled me, one knee in my gut, and started pounding my face. The pain was distant, almost abstract—just the sound of meat hitting meat. I felt my cheekbone crack, and for a second everything went black. I heard Damron’s voice, loud and angry, but couldn’t make out the words.
Somewhere in the haze, I found my right hand. I wrapped it around Saint’s busted fingers and twisted, hard. He shrieked and tried to pull away, but I held on, wrenching his hand until he let go and staggered off me.
We both got to our feet, swaying, half-dead. The circle was dead silent. Not a single laugh, not a jeer—just the sound of two men breathing like dying animals.
Saint wiped his face, spitting out a tooth. “You wanna finish this?” he said.
I nodded, too tired to speak.
He went for my throat, a full-body tackle. I side-stepped and caught him with an elbow to the windpipe. He gagged, stumbled, and I followed with a series of kidney shots, every one designed to cripple. He swung blindly, caught me in the ear, and the world rang.
He grabbed my arm, twisted, and with a yank, popped my shoulder all the way out. The pain was nuclear. I almost blacked out, but adrenaline kept me standing.
I kicked his bad knee again, and this time it gave completely. He dropped, and I drove my knee into his face. He went limp, but I knew better than to trust it. I circled, breathing hard, blood pouring down my face.
Saint tried to get up, but his body was done. He reached for my leg, but I stepped back. He looked up at me, eyes wild.
“Do it,” he said, his voice a rasp.
I hesitated, just a second, then planted my boot on his throat and pressed down, just enough to make the point.
He tapped out. Three weak slaps on my boot.
I let up, stepped back, barely able to stand. The crowd went silent, then erupted.
Damron and Seneca rushed in, dragging me back to the Scythe side. I collapsed into their arms, my head swimming.
Melissa was there, tears streaming down her face, but she was smiling. She kissed me, bloody and broken, and held my hand like it was the last thing in the world that mattered.
The Leatherbacks circled Saint, dragging him away. He was still breathing, but just barely.
I looked at Cutler. He nodded, respect in his eyes, and then turned and walked away, his club falling in behind him.
The trial was over.
We’d won.
I looked at Melissa, her face blurry but bright, and I knew I was alive.
Then Saint tried another charge, but his knee gave way, and he stumbled. I could have ended it there, but I waited. I needed him to come to me. It was the only way the move would work.
He managed a laugh, flecks of red spraying from his lips. “You’re a tough little bitch,” he croaked.
I bared my teeth. “You have no idea.”
He swung again, wild, telegraphed. I ducked, then let my legs give way, crumpling to one knee like I was out of gas.
He took the bait, closing in with both hands ready to choke the life out of me.
I waited until his shadow covered mine, until I could smell the rot of his breath, then drove my good fist straight into his throat.
Every ounce of hate, fear, and hope behind it.
The cartilage gave with a crunch like stepping on a lightbulb. Saint’s eyes went wide, his hands flying to his neck. He stumbled back, gasping, but nothing came in, nothing came out. He tried to say something, but all that came was a high, wet squeal.
He staggered, one step, two, then dropped to his knees. The king laid low. He looked up at me, pleading, but I just watched. The rules were the rules.
He fell, face-first, arms splayed. His body twitched, then went still.
The silence was surgical. The only sound was the wind, the hiss of my own breathing, and the slow drip of blood from my face onto the dirt.
I stood, or tried to. My legs weren’t interested, but I made them work. I moved to where Saint’s body lay, rolled him over, and checked his pulse. Nothing. I looked up at Cutler, who nodded once. It was really over.
The Leatherbacks hung their heads. Some cried. Some stared in disbelief. None of them moved.
I turned and found Melissa. She had broken, finally, silent tears running down her face, but she smiled at me, that same crooked smile that had gotten me into this mess.
Seneca and Damron came to my side, each grabbing an arm, holding me up like a champion and a corpse at the same time.
“He’s dead?” Damron asked.
“Dead as it gets,” I said, or tried to. The words were mostly mush.
Seneca grinned. “Told you. Die interesting, or not at all.”
The Scythes let out a howl, a collective noise of triumph and relief and something almost like joy. The Leatherbacks filed out, carrying Saint’s body on their shoulders, no one saying a word.
Cutler paused at the edge of the circle. He looked at me, and for a second, there was respect, or maybe just recognition that a new monster had entered the world. He tipped his head, then walked into the sunrise.
The crowd thinned. The bikes roared to life, one by one. The Scythes gathered around, patting me on the back, offering water, whiskey, whatever they thought a man needed after killing the devil. But all I wanted was Melissa.
She broke from the crowd, running to me, arms around my neck. I held her as best I could, the pain a reminder that I was still here.
“You did it,” she whispered.
I nodded. “We did.”
She laughed, wet and broken. “You look like shit.”
I grinned, bloody teeth and all. “So do you.”
We stood there, holding each other, while the world reset itself around us. The sun kept climbing, the birds kept calling, and somewhere, the future waited.