Page 50 of A Bride By Morning
“You know him?” Wentworth had to shout in Gabriel’s ear to be heard. At Gabriel’s nod, he added, “We’ll wait until after the fights are over, then we’ll grab him outside the warehouse.”
Gabriel didn’t respond. He watched as the unconscious opponent was hauled away, and the next contender stepped into the ring.
The next man lasted only a few minutes.
On and on it went: Vladimir dominated competition after competition and never seemed to fatigue. Bookmakers collected bets around the cellar, and the crowd shouted profanities as Vladimir thrashed their local competitors. More wagers were made and lost as men gambled their only money for food, clothes, shelter, families.
Finally, Vladimir turned to the assemblage, and as yet another opponent was dragged from the ring. “Who’s next?”
The cellar was hushed as those accented words reverberated across the room. People tried to convince others to take up the challenge. Money was on the line, after all. Livelihoods were being ruined. Vladimir was about to walk away with a fortune.
“I have a better idea,” Gabriel told Wentworth, yanking off his overcoat.
Wentworth’s eyes widened. “Don’t even th—Gabriel!”
Gabriel shoved his coat at Wentworth and headed toward the announcer as he flicked open the buttons of his shirt.
“English,” he said crisply. “Not interested in giving a name.” After tonight, he would vanish, after all. He had no reason to achieve notoriety in Spitalfields.
“We’ve got a new challenger!” The announcer said. “A mystery Englishman!”
The crowd roared as Gabriel shucked his shirt and entered the ring. The mat was splattered with the blood of Vladimir’s other rivals.
Vladimir’s countenance hardened when he saw Gabriel’s face. His lip lifted in a sneer. “Alexei Borislov Zhelyabov. The fucking traitor,” he said in Russian.
Gabriel kept his hands loose at his sides. “Volodya,” he said, circling the other man. Then, in Russian: “You’re a long way from home.”
“We came here just for you,Lord Montgomery.”
Vladimir lunged, his fist striking up with the speed of a bullet. Gabriel dodged, but only just in time. The man was fast for such a big fucker.
“You’re quicker since we last fought,” Gabriel remarked, circling again.
“You’re slower,” the Russian replied. He came for him again, but Gabriel dodged and spun out of the way.
“If you’re here for me, then tell me where I can find Medvedev.”
Vladimir gave him a disgusted look. “I won’t betray the brotherhood.”
“Loyal to the very end, Volodya.” Gabriel dodged another hit and sent his fist into the other man’s gut. Vladimir backed away with a grunt—evidence that he wasn’t as indefatigable as he seemed. The audience cheered. “Medvedev can fight his own fucking battles.”
“But he’s got plans for you and that wife of yours,” Vladimir said.
Anger scorched through Gabriel, but he shoved it down. He couldn’t afford to lose focus. “Tell me where he is, and I’ll consider letting you live, Volodya. You remember that I had a talent at killing.”
The Russian snarled and lunged. His fist caught Gabriel in the middle, an impact with the force of a boulder. Gabriel moved quickly, but the Russian was faster. He slammed his fist into Gabriel’s face. Gabriel staggered, and Vladimir came at him again with another blow. Another. A fourth.
Shouts echoed across the cellar—men encouraging Gabriel to fight back. Gabriel endured this sort of pain before; a part of him welcomed it. It gave him a moment’s salvation from the dark place in his mind where memories of Moscow erupted in visions of torment. His body, after all, was a destructive instrument. He knew how to use it.
Vladimir put an arm around Gabriel’s throat, pressing hard. “Listen to me, you English piece of shit,” he hissed. “I won’t kill you tonight—Medvedev wants that pleasure for himself. But word spread about that little wife of yours, and the men and I keep taking bets on what we’ll do with her.” His arm tightened until stars exploded in Gabriel’s vision. “Some say we should kill her. I say we force you to watch us take turns fucking her. But Medvedev suggests otherwise. He’s thinking he’ll have you watch as he takes out her eyes and carves into her pretty flesh, so the last thing you ever see is the nightmare of your wife’s face before you die.”
A savage growl left Gabriel’s throat. His past rose like a great beast within his skin, fire unfurling through his blood. Gabriel focused on the vision Vladimir conjured: what Medvedev would do to Lydia. How he would break her.
Gabriel snapped. He struck with an elbow to Vladimir’s gut and whirled, his fists flying. Vladimir twisted to dodge, but Gabriel slammed his fist into the Russian’s face. Came forward, did it again. Vladimir tried to land another blow, but Gabriel was too fast. Rote muscle memory was miraculous; his body knew the way of things. He had fought his memories for so long in London, hid them behind false smiles. Hid them from Lydia.
But right then, he gave violence power over his body. He let it roar through his veins, yielding to the animal desire to hurt something. To protect Lydia.
Gabriel would kill any man who came near her.
