Chapter 27
Samantha
I’m noticing a pattern. The ref is not there to keep these men from killing each other, only to keep the fight going.
This one also ends with one man going down.
But, after the winner is declared, he manages to stand up on his own.
His face is puffy and red with rage as he stumbles down out of the ring and stalks into the locker room.
I’m about to follow him, when the locker room door opens and Killian steps out.
My muscles freeze, my breath stalls at the sight of him.
His head is down as he makes his way to the ring, Sully at his side.
He’s wearing red silk trunks, and his muscular, tatted chest and arms are pumped with a sheen of sweat.
He’s got the most magnificent, well-defined set of lats I’ve ever seen on a man, giving him that classic V shape.
The last time I saw him in this state of undress it was dark.
In the light there is no denying the fact that he is lethally beautiful.
And then the door opens again, and a giant man steps out with a toothy grin.
Holy shit.
This is the guy Killian’s fighting? Killian’s tall at six-three but this guy has another two or three inches on him.
He looks like a bear with a coat of black hair over massive shoulders and back.
His head is shaved and a scar glistens on his scalp above his right ear.
I’d love to know the story behind that. Who got the drop on this titan?
The man’s sized fifteen feet carry him to the ring, while the crowd whistles and chants his name. “Pun-ish-er! Pun-ish-er!”
He holds up his fists, pumping them in the air, and that’s when I notice he’s not wearing boxing gloves, but MMA gloves. My heart skips a beat as I glance over at Killian. He’s wearing them, too.
Shit. They’re going to kill each other. I don’t know if I have enough bandages and butterfly stitches for the carnage that’s coming.
The Punisher waits ringside while two men wipe up the slicks of blood off the mat floor. He’s staring at Killian like he’s going to eat him alive. Killian is ignoring him, cool as a cucumber, talking to Sandro and the rest of the Italian gang. Looks like Sandro’s cousins have joined him.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I turn and rush into the locker room to check on the two men who just finished. When I catch a glimpse of one of them naked, holding a towel, I quickly turn my back.
“I’m Dr. Dal,” I call out. “Can you put the towel on please, so I can check your injuries.”
I hear a chuckle from a few of the men in there.
“What if it’s my dick that’s injured, Doc?” one of them says.
“I doubt she could find it,” another man calls.
More laughter.
I need to get back out there and watch the fight, so I turn and keep my eyes on the man’s swollen face as I approach him. “Let me check that cut under your eye.”
He waves me off. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just need a shower and a shot of whiskey.” He turns dismissively and heads to the showers.
“Fine,” I say, anxious to get back to the current fight. If the asshole wants a scar, that’s his choice. I push my way back through the crowd to stand beside Sully.
He glances down at me. I feel him studying my face. “Don’t worry, darlin’. Killian can hold his own.”
“I’m not worried,” is on the tip of my tongue, but that’s a lie so I just nod.
The men are facing off. The Punisher is standing flat-footed, arms by his sides like he’s not afraid to take a punch. Killian is bouncing on his toes, fists up, taking a long measuring look at his opponent. Killian’s talking to him, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
The darkening expression on The Punisher’s face gives me a clue, though. He suddenly lashes out with a big swing toward Killian’s jaw. Killian easily moves out of the way, quick and smooth as a jungle cat. Is that enough of an advantage over this guy’s size? I guess we’ll see.
Killian is still bouncing lightly on his feet, and the crowd is getting louder, when his eyes suddenly flick up over his fists and meet mine.
He stills and a rush of heat explodes through my body. I can’t look away and apparently neither can he, because he’s still holding my gaze when The Punisher’s fist lands a hard punch to his gut.
His body absorbs the blow with a small “oof”, and he dances a few steps back, rolls his neck, regrouping. Having that six pack of muscle saved his organs, but I know he’s still probably winded and in pain.
Not a good way to start a fight. Why do I feel like that was my fault?