Chapter 16
Ciar
There isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting her take one more swing, or one more hit. She is swaying on her feet, and this arsehole that has lumbered up out of nowhere can get fucked. I move in front of her and block Paddy’s view.
“You wanted a champion. You’ve got me.”
“Ciar,” Sorcha hisses, but I ignore her. This isn’t about her now. This is about me and O’Malley.
Paddy’s nephew squares up, that flat boxer stare I know too well. He’s big, but so am I.
“Your man comes in here, I put him down. When he loses, you walk, for good. You give the O’Malley word you’ll stand down from Sorcha. If you don’t, I’ll start with you next.”
Paddy’s eyes narrow. “And if you lose?”
“I won’t.”
He smirks, but he nods. The crowd hums, hungry. Axl and Cillian move closer to Sorcha. I don’t look at her, but I know she is pissed.
Axl lifts his hands. “On me. Start.”
The nephew comes in heavy, like he’s used to blasting through guards. I give him nothing. I let him swing a long jab, watch the shoulder, roll inside it and test his ribs with a short right. Good thud. He grunts and resets, less sure.
He throws a one-two with decent snap. I slip the first and catch the second on my forearm. It stings, nothing more. I step to his left and smash a low kick into the outside of his thigh. He doesn’t check. He won’t forget that.
He feints and whips a hook at my temple. I take it on my hand and answer with an elbow across his eyebrow. Skin parts. Blood runs. He flinches. I don’t.
He charges at me like a bull. I let him get close, grab the back of his neck, and slam my knee into his thigh.
He snarls in pain. When he tries to throw me down, I drop my weight, then explode upward.
I lock my arms around his body. One quick sweep of his legs, and his back hits the stone floor with a crack.
All his air rushes out in one harsh grunt.
I don’t follow him down. I want him up where everyone can see. “On your feet, arsehole, or do you fold?”
He staggers up, eyes glassy, blood staining his face. Pride keeps him upright more than his legs do.
He swings wildly to cover the wobble. I step inside and bury a right to the liver.
His whole body seizes. He folds around it, a strangled sound ripping out of him.
I hook the back of his neck and drive another knee into the same spot.
He drops to a knee. I give him space because I want him standing when I end it.
He forces himself up slowly, jaw clenched. He tries for a clinch. I let him grab, then frame his face with one forearm, the other hand on his bicep, and rip an uppercut through the middle. His head snaps back. I do it again.
He blinks at me through swelling eyes, then charges forward.
It’s all he’s got left. I meet him with a short elbow to the face.
As he staggers, I pivot and hack at the same thigh I’d softened earlier.
His leg buckles beneath him. When he lurches sideways and throws a desperate overhand punch, I catch the blow on my shoulder.
I answer with three straight shots to his face.
His nose breaks with a wet crunch. Blood streams down his chin as he raises his hands to protect his head.
I throw a low kick to his inner thigh. His balance fails.
I crowd against him, shoulder to chest, and trip him hard to the ground.
This time, I follow him down, pressing my knee on his stomach and my forearm across his throat.
He taps weakly at my elbow, not even realising what he’s doing.
I press until his face flushes dark red, then stand and step away.
“Your word,” I snarl to Paddy without looking away from the man under me. “You stand down from Sorcha. If you come for her again, I will burn your family tree from the roots.”
Murmurs ripple. Phones are up, catching every word. Paddy doesn’t blink.
“It was a fair fight,” he concedes eventually. “You have my word. But know this, she is being hunted.”
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Axl drawls, almost making me snort in amusement.
Paddy O’Malley holds my gaze for a long, heavy moment before he signals for two of his men to haul his nephew’s unconscious body up the stairs.
The crowd parts for them, a silent sea of respect and fear.
Paddy follows, but not before his eyes land on Sorcha, a final, cold assessment that makes my hands clench into fists again.
He’s gone, but his warning hangs in the damp air like a shroud.
The spell is broken. The crowd starts to disperse, the buzz of their hushed conversations filling the void. My focus narrows to one person. I turn to Sorcha. Blood is smeared on her cheek and trickling from a cut on her lip. Her eyes are blazing infernos of pride and rage.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice a low, dangerous rasp as I reach for her. She flinches away from my touch.
I ignore her, cupping her jaw gently, my thumb stroking the bruised skin. Her body is rigid with anger, but she doesn’t pull away again. “You won your fight,” I tell her, my voice rough. “This one was mine. You’re hurt. You’re done for tonight.”
“I decide when I’m done,” she spits, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just exhaustion and pain she’s trying to hide.
“No,” I correct her, my grip firm but not bruising. “I do. You’re done.”
She hisses, but it comes out more like a sigh. “Are you hurt?”
I snort. “No, I’m good, but thanks for asking.”
“Good for you,” she mutters under her breath, making me laugh.
“Want me to carry you out of here?”
“Touch me and you pull back a bloody stump,” she growls and flicks her head back. Then she breathes in and crosses over to Annastasia. She crouches in front of her opponent and whispers something.
Annastasia frowns and nods.
I watch, ready to rip them apart, but they bump fists and Sorcha straightens up.
She strides past me, past Cillian and Axl to head up the steps into the night air. We rush to follow her, remembering what happened last time she left this place on her own.
Of course, history repeats itself, but this time Cian doesn’t punch her and abduct her; he simply stands on the side of the crypt, knee bent, foot resting against the wall as he drags on a cigarette.
“Time’s up,” he says, blowing out a plume of smoke before he drops the cigarette and stamps it out under his boot.