Chapter 54 Jagger
JAGGER
“Five seconds,” Roman calls.
Five seconds? I only have five more seconds?
Another surge of adrenaline gushes through me as I stare at the love of my life crouched in front of me.
Her hands cup my beaten face, and her bottom lip wobbles.
But her eyes? Fuck, those coffee brown eyes.
They’re so damn resolute, I can’t help but want to syphon some of it and keep it for myself.
There are so many things I want to say. I want to apologize. I want to ask if she truly understands what she’s asking me to do. What she’s willing to give up. But there’s only five seconds.
“Vi,” I start.
“You got this, Jag.”
With a slow, encouraging nod, Violet’s warm touch falls from my face. She steps back, giving me room to stand when all I want to do is drag her toward me again. How did she know? How the hell did she know? Does it even matter?
Roman pulls off the folding chair, and I turn toward Morgan with a new perspective, well-aware of exactly what I’m walking into.
Funny thing is, Morgan has no idea. Not anymore.
The asshole’s grinning at me like we’re just getting started.
And maybe, in his mind, we are. But me? I wipe at the cut above my brow with the back of my taped knuckles. I’m ready to finish this thing.
Keeping my guard tight, I stay light on my feet as the bell rings. Morgan tests the line, throwing a quick jab, but I dodge it at the last second. Surprise flashes across his face until I crash into him with a takedown.
Didn’t see that one coming, did you, asshole?
As we both hit the mat, the breath leaves my lungs on a whoosh, and we tumble over each other, each fighting for the upper hand when he lands another savage blow to my bruised side.
Yeah, okay. I felt that one.
Pinning me with his weight, he cracks my skull with his elbow, smothering my mouth with his opposite forearm. Stars erupt, blurring my vision, but I blink them back, refusing to play his game for another second. Nah. The asshole’s had his fun.
I center myself, grab his wrist, and twist while simultaneously shifting my hips and exploding up until I’m finally back on my feet.
It happens so fast, he barely has time to scramble to his own.
I could attack and catch him off guard. Instead, I give him space, curious if the world around us is fading into the background for him as much as it is for me since we can finally brawl for real.
He cocks his head, watching me as he wipes beneath his nose, though I’m pretty sure the blood staining his knuckles belongs to me. For now.
It’s time to make this bitch bleed.
Squaring up again, I circle him, my sights zeroed in on his weakest point.
I hammer his lead leg with three calf kicks.
It’s the same move I did during an earlier round, but this time, I don’t half-ass it.
Sharp and fast, I focus on precision instead of power.
All right, that’s a lie. I kick the shit out of him, making sure to leave his leg on fire.
He throws a clumsy punch, but I dodge it with ease.
Not so tough now, are you? As he tries to give his lead leg his weight, he nearly loses his balance and winces.
Too bad his leg is worthless for the moment.
Taking advantage of an opening, I hit him with a quick jab-cross combination before stepping in with a clean elbow and slicing his brow open.
“Fuck!” he seethes. Blood pools from the cut and drips down the side of his face.
I grin at the sight, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Anytime now,” I goad.
He goes for a quick kick, but I sidestep him, punishing him with a hook to the liver. He buckles like a bridge under too much weight, and the crowd loses their damn minds.
“There he is!”
“That’s the Jagger we fucking love!”
“Hit him again!”
Morgan’s enraged snarl mingles with their cheers as he registers what they’re saying. My adrenaline feeds off it until I can barely feel the sharp pain in my side. The one I swore would be my downfall until Violet pulled me aside.
Chest heaving, I glance at the clock. Twenty-two seconds.
There’s time. I can finish him in twenty-two seconds.
His arms swing in another wild, clumsy punch, but I’m already inside his reach.
Uppercut. Elbow. Calf-kick. His leg gives out, and he drops to his knee.
Rushing toward him, I land another punch to his jaw, and he flies to his left, his taped hands connecting with the mat in a loud slap.
The sound is like music to my fucking ears.
I sprawl on top of him, my arm wrapping around his neck.
I could rush it. Squeeze quick. Let him know he has nowhere to go.
Instead, I take my time. Slowly adding pressure and tightening my grip while trapping his hand between my ribs and the mat, so he has nothing to do but tap out or pass out.
His arms flail. Bucking and squirming and clawing at my forearm.
When he tries to dig his finger toward my mouth, I slide to his back, preventing him from landing a fishhook because, seriously? Another illegal move?
What an ass.
The crowd screams around me, but I can’t hear it through the chaos in my ears.
My blood is pounding. Locking the body triangle, I wait for the breath.
The panic. The final moment when he knows he’s screwed.
And he is. Because there’s no way I’ll let this sorry sonofabitch take my victory.
Not when I’m so close. My body tightens as I sink into a rear-naked choke, just like our first fight, watching his hands like a hawk in case the asshole even thinks about taking my eye out like he attempted to last time.
The bastard fights. His body is slick with sweat and blood, making it nearly impossible to keep my grip, but I don’t back down. I don’t let go. Three, two—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The ref darts forward before Morgan’s body has a chance to go limp from lack of oxygen. It’s almost a shame. I fight the urge to kick him as the ref tugs me off Morgan and raises my hand into the air.
I won. I fucking won!
I glance down at Morgan on his hands and knees, coughing his ass off and fighting for air. Good. I hope he stays hoarse for a week.
“Jag-ger! Jag-ger! Jag-ger!” the crowd chants, but all I see is my Little Thief standing at the edge. A sheen mars her pretty gaze, her fingers pressed to her pouty lips. Relief. Pride. Happiness. They all battle for the spotlight as she stares up at me, motionless.
“Love you,” I breathe out, knowing she can read my lips as easily as she has a way of reading my mind.
“Love you,” she returns. I don’t hear it, but I don’t need to. I feel it in my bones.
As soon as the ref lets my arm go, I rush toward Violet at the edge of the mat.
She meets me halfway, wrapping her body around me.
“You did it!” She grabs my face, kissing the shit out of me as the roar from the crowd spurs her on.
The sting from my lip is nothing but a blip on my radar.
I’m too wrapped up in Violet and what this victory means.
Sure, I won. And yeah, it feels pretty damn sweet, but there will be repercussions.
Pushing aside the thought, I cup Violet’s ass, spinning us around and around while the rest of the world fades away.
In this moment, it’s only me and Vi. My Little Thief.
The only one with the power to bring me to my knees.
And even though that power almost ruined me tonight, she brought me back from the darkness as soon as she could.
We fucking won!