Page 18 of The Enemy to the Living
My attention snaps back to the cage when Quinn climbs up into it. He’s shirtless tonight, and my breath catches in my throat. I shouldn’t be surprised by the way he looks. I know how big he is. Clothes can’t hide everything.
I never anticipated the bulge of his arms, though, or the way his pecs flex when he moves. Fuck. I take a gulp of my beer, the back of my neck prickling with heat. I’m old enough that I should have better control over myself than this, and my blessing feels the slip, reaching out, reaching for—
I drag it back, fingers tightening on the cold glass I’m holding. I don’t really want to alert Quinn to my presence, either. He’s here to fight, and it’s not fair that I distract him from that.
It is hard to focus on what is sensible, though, as the fight begins. In the cage, Quinn is nothing like the wolf I have spoken to outside of it. He faces the selkie completely without fear, despite the fact that she is fast, claws out and ready to shred him to ribbons.
I circle slightly to the right, trying to keep Quinn in view. He dodges most of her hits, surprisingly fast despite his size. Of course a wolf has a great many advantages over the average fae, but I don’t think he knows that and besides, he hasn’t shifted.
He doesn’t shift at all, in fact. Doesn’t pay attention to the crowd either, most of which is baying for him to lose. The selkie is a favourite, it seems, but that doesn’t appear to matter to Quinn at all. He observes her as he dodges each hit, eyes narrowing when she clearly grows angrier and angrier.
When he strikes, it is so fast that I almost miss it. His fist snaps out, catching her in the centre of her chest, and she stumbles backwards, all the breath knocked out of her. She recovers quickly but not quickly enough. Quinn is on her before she can push back off from the edge of the cage, and another punch sends her to the mats. She is not unconscious; I hear her faint groan of pain.
She yields before Quinn can strike again. He retreats to the other side of the cage and leans back against the wire. Mouth dry despite the beer I’ve been drinking, I study him, the fae around me entirely forgotten.
I have never beforeseenanyone take out a fae so quickly. Maurice is fast with his dagger, and Vlad and Jeremiah are almost as speedy, being as they are all vampires, but Quinn has something else about him, something I have never seen from them. He has taught himself how to fight the fae and has ended up as someone, at least in terms of skills, I believe the Huntsman would not hesitate to recruit.
I snort softly, the thought dragging me back to here and now. The selkie gets stiffly to her feet and snatches up her coat, giving Quinn an impressive glare as she passes him by. The crowd boos, but there are scattered cheers for him too, and I am sure by the end of his bouts, they will have turned in his favour.
The troll appears at my side. “This round?”
“The pup again.”
I don’t even look at him, just feel his presence move away. Quinn’s breathing is steady. His hands are loose, stance relaxed.
It would be easy to think that he is calm. That he feels nothing to be here; he simply wishes to fight.
But I look at his face. His eyes. A fire is banked within them, and it flares brightly as his next opponent steps into the cage. Another wolf.
Quinn pushes off from the edge of the cage and I circle around to get a better look. Oh, he’ll win again. I have no doubt about that.
Chapter Eight
Quinn
IstarearoundmeasI step into Mischief & Mayhem again. The place looksexactlythe same as it did, but we’re in Hammersmith now, and I don’t really know how that’s possible.
I don’t recognise the bartender, and she frowns when I simply stand there, gaping.
“You here to fight?”
“Yeah.”
“The wolf pup?”
I frown. They’ve taken to calling me that. It’s not really a stage name—we don’t have those—but no one reveals their real names, either. Bryn says it’s not a thing the fae do, that any name I call a fae by isn’t their true one, and that courtesy of not giving them away seems to extend to the rest of us fighters, too.
Still, they need a way to differentiate us for the bets, I guess. And I’m by far the youngest wolf here; Bryn’s in his sixties, I think, though in the way of wolves he looks only forty, and the other couple of wolves I’ve seen fighting are older than that.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“The twins were asking for you,” she says, and my stomach sinks when she indicates the next room with a jerk of her chin. “They’re waiting in the booth.”
I mutter my thanks and move quickly into the next room. It’s already packed in here, a selkie beating the shit out of a troll in the cage. I swallow hard. I don’t really want to face her—she looks vicious as all hell—but if I do, I think I can win.
The trolls guarding the twins step aside as I approach, and I slide through the shadows and into the booth. Celyn is watching the fight, chin propped on one hand, but Sorrel’s gaze focuses immediately on me. He frowns, dark green lips forming a little pout.
“You made it.” He sounds disappointed. I nod. I can’t trust myself to reply to that.
