Chapter Nine #2
Drake scoffed at himself. But the fact remained, he had faced countless opponents in this ring, had knocked men twice his size to the ground without breaking a sweat.
But not one of them had ever made him want to be watched.
Not one of them had ever made him conscious of the way he moved, the way he held himself, the particular image he cut against the roaring crowd.
He was not a man who performed. Yet here he stood, acutely aware of the woman at his back.
And once again, she’d upended his expectations.
He doubted those pretty lips would ever confess.
He’d be a fool to think her a simple woman, so he never had.
Her friends were titled. She might even be the same as his sister-in-law—a lady on the run.
The last thing he wanted was to expose her.
However, the moment she stepped into his notice, all the usual boundaries ceased to matter.
He had thought she’d falter when he brought her back here. But for the moment she’d searched the crowd, the woman had kept her cool well. Too well.
Most definitely hiding something.
So if she insisted on slipping through his questions, fine.
He’d simply learn what he needed another way.
Always, his curiosity of her nagged at him.
Would she root for him to fail? Win? Run away?
Stay? Was she an enemy or a foe or simply, as she stated, an innocent party? No. He discarded the last.
Suspicious minx.
Ox thumped his fists together. “Back for another thrashing, Fury?”
Drake gave a humorless laugh, cracking his own knuckles. “You’d have to land a fist first.”
The man bared his teeth. “Tonight’s the night.”
“Every fight is,” Drake drawled. “Yet you’ve never managed it.”
They each took their stance and began their slow circle. This big blackguard was much bigger than him, but size had never been the deciding factor between them. They were evenly matched in skill.
Drake had never lost to him.
Never intended to.
Ox grinned, blood staining his teeth, and swung first—a heavy, arcing blow meant to rattle Drake’s bones.
He ducked, the blow skimming his jaw. Too slow.
Always too slow on the first strike. “Was that a swing or a breeze?” he taunted, countering with a quick jab to the man’s ribs, another to the gut, each one solid enough to make the giant grunt.
Good. Feel it, you blackguard.
Drake retreated, stealing a quick covert glance toward the fringe where Violet stood, still as a statue, knuckles white around his discarded shirt, eyes locked on him. Not horrified. Not impressed either. Something in between.
Dissecting me, no doubt.
An old spark flared to life in him—a spark he’d not felt in years.
In his youth, every fight had been a test he set for himself, a way to measure what he was made of.
He hadn’t chased that edge in a very long time.
And tonight, the edge prowled under his skin.
Ox lunged again, and Drake sidestepped, letting the man stumble, then caught him with a sharp right that snapped the man’s head to the side. The crowd roared.
Violet’s presence pressed at the fringes of his awareness. Every step he took, every strike he chose, every dodge, it all sharpened under the knowledge that her eyes were on him.
It made his blood stir.
He rolled his neck, lifted his fists, and beckoned his opponent with the faintest curl of satisfaction tugging his mouth. His next blow landed square on Ox’s jaw, pain shooting up his hand. A damn pleasing pain.
Drake shot a quick glance at Violet. A mistake. He sensed it at once and too late at the same time. The blow slammed into his face, a second one in his abdomen, sending him stumbling back several steps. Pain lanced through him. Not the pleasing kind.
Ox was on him instantly.
Another fist. “Not so quick now, are you, Fury?”
Bloody hell. Drake dodged it, barely. A second grazed his jaw. A third he blocked, but the impact made him curse. Drake steadied himself, jaw clenched, tasting blood. He blocked out the bellows from the crowd, the pain, everything except the man before him.
The man flashed his teeth. “Feeling it yet?”
Drake spit blood. “Barely a tickle.”
Damn it.
He’d lost track of how long it had been since someone had gotten the upper hand on him, when he had last lost a fight. He refused to lose this one. Not with Violet here.
As if sensing his inner resolution, Ox taunted, “You’re going to embarrass yourself in front of your bird, Fury.”
It was the wrong goad. “Not on your life, you arse.”
Ox laughed, and this time, when the beefy man struck, Drake stepped into the blow, deflecting the strike with a sharp twist of his forearm and driving his elbow into Ox’s ribs in the same motion.
The man grunted. Drake didn’t give him room to recover.
“I’ve indulged you long enough,” he growled, driving his fist up, fast and merciless, a brutal uppercut that knocked the man out cold.
Drake stepped back, dragging a deep breath of air into his lungs, and looked down at the man crumpled at his feet. His knuckles throbbed with a dull, satisfying ache. Ox wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.
He turned to glance at Violet, who stared at him with wide eyes.
The memory of their “punishment” in the courtyard flashed in his mind.
Drake couldn’t say what caused the sudden urge to completely conquer to surge within him. Perhaps the way her lips parted. Perhaps the way she did not look away. Yet it was there, primal and inarguable. Deep and fierce, gathering strength with every breath he took.
His brothers would claim post-match madness. The thunder of blood still roaring through his veins. But Drake knew better. This rush had a different shape, a different pull, and every inch of that hunger pointed straight at her.
The crowd’s craze dulled, leaving only the sharp, clear line of her in his sight.
She bit down on her lip.
It was such a small thing. An unconscious thing, but . . .
Well, Christ.
He could no more stop his feet from moving than he could stop his heart from beating.
Drake allowed pure instinct to guide him, closing the distance between them in a few purposeful strides.
Her brow pinched slightly, chin lifting to keep his gaze, curiosity and confusion lighting inside them.
She barely managed a gasp before he cupped the back of her neck and crushed her against him, his mouth claiming hers with the raw, consuming force.
She tasted exactly as he remembered.
Hellfire.
Holy water.
And everything in between.