Chapter 40
Logan
The fist hits my face, and his knuckles split. I grin, taking it. I wanted it.
I hear Nuala’s gasp from ringside over the roar of the crowd. I’m listening for her, even now.
“Come on, lad!” Seamus bellows. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Enjoying myself.
The other fighter, a brute named Collins, swings a wild hook. I duck under it. The movement is instinct. My body remembers violence better than it remembers prayer. I drive a hard right into his ribs. Bone crunches. He grunts, air leaving his lungs in a rush.
I don’t back off. I press the advantage.
Blood drips from my split lip. The sting clears my head. I land a jab to his nose. Cartilage gives way. Red spray paints the canvas. The crowd screams for blood. They want a show. I give them an execution.
I glance past Collins’s guarding arms. Nuala stands by the corner post. Her hands grip the ropes. Her knuckles are white. She isn’t looking away. Her gaze locks on mine, dark and hungry. She likes the monster. She feeds it.
Collins stumbles, trying to regain his footing. I step in. I hook my left to his liver. He drops his guard. My right hand connects with his jaw. The impact jars my arm all the way to the socket.
He hits the floor. He doesn’t move.
The ref dives in, waving his arms. It’s over. I stand over the fallen man, chest heaving. The violence hums under my skin. I turn to Nuala with a grin. She shakes her head with a smile.
I wipe the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand. This is my church now, and she is the only saint I worship.
I climb through the ropes and drop to the concrete floor. The noise of the crowd fades into background static. I only focus on Nuala as I spit the mouth guard out.
She stands her ground. She doesn’t flinch at the blood on my chest or the sweat dripping down my face. She reaches out. Her thumb traces the split in my lip. The sharp sting focuses me.
“You’re a mess,” she says.
I grab her hand. My taped hand scrapes against her palm. I pull her closer until her body presses against mine. The blood on my skin transfers to her white coat.
“You’re ruining my clothes,” she notes, looking down at the red stain.
“I bought them,” I say. “I can ruin them.”
“Fair point,” she says as Seamus barrels over with a towel.
“Took your fucking time,” he growls.
“I won, didn’t I?” I say, never taking my eyes from Nuala’s.
Seamus grunts, shoving a water bottle against my chest. “You fought like a distracted man.”
“I fought like a winner.” I toss the towel back at him. “Collect my money. I’m leaving.”
I don’t wait for his reply. I wrap my arm around Nuala’s waist, staining the white wool of her coat further. I don’t care. The crowd parts for us. They see the violence still humming under my skin. They move.
We head down the concrete tunnel toward the changing rooms. The noise fades. The air cools.
I drag her into the small room and kick the door shut.
“You liked that,” I say. It’s not a question.
Nuala stands before me. Her gaze drops to my chest, tracking the sweat and blood. “It was violent.”
“It was necessary.” I step into her space until her back hits the metal lockers. A loud clang echoes in the small room. “You watched me break him. Your eyes didn’t look away once.”
She lifts her chin. She doesn’t deny it. “You’re terrifying.”
“Does it scare you?”
“No.”
I run my taped hand down the front of her coat. The red smear looks stark against the fabric. It marks her as mine just as much as the ring does.
I peel the tape from my hands. The adhesive gives way with a sharp rip. I toss the sticky wad into the corner. My knuckles are raw, swollen, but the pain feels distant. It serves as a reminder of the damage I inflicted.
“You’re trembling,” I observe.
I reach out. My hand wraps around her throat. Not to choke, just to hold. To feel the pulse hammering against my palm.
“Adrenaline,” she says. Her voice is breathless.
“Lust.”
“Shower,” she says. “You stink.”
I chuckle darkly and let her go. I turn the handle on the rusted shower head. The pipes groan before water blasts out. I don’t wait for it to heat up. I strip off my shorts, kicking them into the corner with the wadded tape.
I stand naked under the spray. The water hits my skin, stinging the fresh cuts on my face and chest. I watch the red swirl around the drain. My blood. Collins’s blood. It all washes away the same.
Nuala stays by the lockers. Her eyes track the water running down my chest. She bites her lip. She wants this. She wants the violence I just unleashed, stripped bare in front of her.
“Enjoying the view?” I ask, running a hand through my wet hair.
“Always.”
“You know what I’m made of.” I step out of the spray. I don’t grab a towel. I drip onto the concrete floor, closing the distance between us. “Muscle. Bone. And you.”
She doesn’t retreat. She reaches out, her fingers brushing the ink on my wet chest. “You’re still bleeding.”
I glance down. A cut above my rib still weeps red. “It’ll stop.”
“You act like you’re invincible.”
“I have to be.” I trap her against the metal locker, placing my damp hands on the surface on either side of her head. Water drips from my hair onto her face. She doesn’t wipe it away. “Invincible men keep their women safe.”
“Safe,” she repeats. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Say it like you believe it.”
“Safe,” she says, louder this time.
Her hands track up my chest.
“We need to go,” she says, but she doesn’t move. She stays exactly where I put her.
“In a minute.”
I lower my head. I kiss her. It isn’t gentle. My split lip throbs against her mouth. She opens for me instantly. Her hands grip my biceps. Her nails dig into my skin.
I pull back. Her face is flushed.
“You’re a bad influence, Nuala Quinn,” I say.
I step back. The cold air bites at my damp skin. I grab the towel Seamus threw at me and dry off fast before getting dressed in record time.
“Let’s go. I need a drink, and you need to stop looking at me like that.”
“Logan, we need to talk,” she says, and it stops my heart for just one moment.
“What about?” I say stiffly.
“It’s been weeks since all of this shit went down. But I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“What shoe?”
“The one where I wake up, and this was all a dream. I want to get married. Soon.”
Her admission hangs in the damp air between us. She fears this life will vanish. She thinks I’m a dream. I am flesh and blood and violence. I need to make sure she never doubts it again.
“Define soon,” I demand.
She twists the diamond band on her finger. “I don’t know. A month? A week?”
“Done.”
“Which one?” she asks with a nervous giggle.
“A week. We need to get things sorted.” I grab her hand. My grip is tight. I pull her toward the exit. “I’ll bind you to me so tight you won’t be able to breathe without feeling the O’Neill name in your lungs.”
“A week, then,” she says with a slow smile. “And I know the perfect place.”