Page 67 of Scarlet Chains
My knee rockets up toward his groin, but he pivots at the last second, my kneecap connecting with the solid muscle of his thigh instead. His grip on my throat tightens like a vise, cutting off air, turning my vision gray at the edges.
The voice in my head stays deadly calm even as my lungs begin to burn for oxygen. The voice that’s guided me through street riots and gang wars and business deals that could have ended with bullets instead of handshakes.
I grab his wrist with both hands, twist sharply to the left while driving my shoulder into his chest with every pound of muscle I possess. The leverage breaks his grip, sends himstumbling backward toward the wall hard enough to rattle the framed artwork.
But as he falls, his hand darts toward his jacket pocket with snake-like speed, emerges with something that catches the soft lighting and throws it back in razor-sharp gleams.
A knife. Military issue, the kind designed for one purpose only.
The blade arcs toward my chest in a glittering trajectory of death. I twist away desperately, feel the steel part the air so close to my heart that it slices through the silk of my robe. Cold metal touches skin without breaking it— a millimeter closer and this fight would be over.
My hand snaps out, fingers closing around his wrist just as he tries to adjust his angle for another strike. We struggle for control of the weapon, both of our hands locked around his wrist as the knife trembles between us like a compass needle seeking magnetic north.
Stanley’s face contorts with effort and desperation, sweat beading on his forehead as he tries to drive the blade home. His muscles strain against mine, tendons standing out like steel cables under his skin.
“Going to gut you like a fish,” he grunts through gritted teeth. “Then I’m going to finish what I started with your little whore.”
The words hit me harder than any fist could. The casual way he refers to Ilona, the promise of violence against her— it unlocks something savage that I’ve kept chained in the darkest corners of my soul.
The streets taught me that in a knife fight, there are no rules except survival. No honor, no fair play, no gentlemen’s agreements— just the ugly mathematics of who wants to live more. Who’s willing to do whatever it takes to see another sunrise.
I slam Stanley’s wrist against the wall with bone-crushing force. Once. Twice. The third impact draws a scream from his throat as something grinds— dislocation, maybe worse. His fingers go numb, and the knife clatters to the floor.
Then I drive my forehead into his face with every ounce of strength and fury I possess.
The impact splits his lips against his teeth, sends blood spraying across the wall in an abstract pattern of violence.
But I’m not done.
Not even close.
The weapon skitters across the floor, spinning until it comes to rest near the door— far enough away that it’s no longer an immediate threat. But Stanley isn’t finished either. Pain and desperation have a way of making even soft men dangerous.
He lunges at me with the mindless fury of a cornered animal, his good hand forming a fist that connects with my jaw hard enough to rattle my teeth. Stars explode across my vision, and I taste copper as my teeth slice the inside of my cheek.
I shake off the blow and return it with interest— an uppercut that snaps his head back and sends more blood flying. Then another to his ribs, and another to his solar plexus. Each punch carries months of rage, of nightmares where I was too late to save her, of the sick fantasy playing out in this room before I arrived.
We trade blows without mercy or strategy now, each impact echoing off the walls like thunder. Stanley manages to land a solid hit to my ribs that drives the air from my lungs and sends fire racing through my torso. Something might be cracked, but I don’t give him time to capitalize on the advantage.
My left hook catches him in the temple, spinning him halfway around. When he turns back to face me, his right eye is already swelling shut, and blood streams from his broken nose like twin rivers of crimson.
But he keeps coming. I have to give the bastard credit for that. Most men would be unconscious by now, or at least smart enough to stay down. Stanley Morrison fights like a man with nothing left to lose.
Which makes him infinitely more dangerous.
Blood flows freely from both of us now— from Stanley’s shattered nose and split lips, from the gash on my cheek where his ring caught me, from knuckles scraped raw against bone and cartilage. The expensive carpet beneath our feet grows dark with droplets that mark each exchange of violence like some primitive ritual.
This isn’t the choreographed combat of movies, all graceful moves and witty one-liners. This is desperate and ugly and exhausting— the kind of fighting that leaves permanent damage to both body and soul. The kind where both men understand that only one is walking away whole.
Stanley’s training shows in flashes— military combat moves mixed with boxing fundamentals, the expensive education that money can buy. But there’s no heart in his violence, no deeper purpose beyond inflicting damage.
I fight like a man with his soul on the line. My woman is cowered in the corner, watching this brutal display. My future hangs in the balance. My past is written in blood and choices that stained my soul permanently.
Another kick combination from Stanley— a sweep that I barely manage to slip before he flings another punch. His knuckles whistle past my ear close enough to part my hair. I counter with a devastating body shot that doubles him over, then bring my knee up toward his face.
The impact connects with his already ruined nose in an explosion of blood and cartilage. Stanley drops to one knee, gasping for air, one hand pressed to his face in a futile attempt to stem the flow.
For a moment, I think it’s over. That I’ve finally beaten him down far enough to end this nightmare. That he’s finished and I can focus on getting Ilona to safety.
