Page 44 of The Boss
“Again!” A deep voice says. More grunting. Someone is out here fighting? Torturing?
I freeze, fighting my inner survivor brain that defaults toRun away, you idiot!And my years of training and plotting that urges me,finally, something interesting out here! Go see what you can learn!
I move toward the sound with purpose, but slowly enough that I’m not making much noise. Leaves and needles crunchunder my feet but the closer I get to the sounds, the more I’m convinced they won’t hear me coming. It’s more than two men and some of them are cheering or heckling, clearly watching the fight.
“DOH!” Someone’s hit in the gut. I pick up speed. I round a corner and see a clearing, a makeshift rink of dirt inside a ring of trees. Maybe whoever is planning to dethrone my husband is out here traini—
Oh.
“Ugh!” A man bellows as Quinn tries to cut his body in half with another blow to the gut. Then to the head. Then with a swipe of his foot the man is down on the ground. Quinn steps back so the guy can get up, then advances again. Unbelievably fast.
My husband is in a black dry-fit t-shirt and dark combat pants, those huge black boots I washed. His arms are like the tree trunks around us yet I can hardly focus my eyes on them because they keep moving so fast. The soldier doesn’t have a chance.
I gasp as a second man attacks Quinn from the rear. Without even looking, the man I’m married to quickly twists to punch the second attacker right before turning and kicking the first.
“What?” I whisper. More of a shocked exhale, really.
I’ve seen fighters. Good ones. Great ones. But always one on one. Never two on one. Never a fuckingdonagainst his own men.
The second guy manages to slam his fist into Quinn’s lower back. A move that I know must have hurt, since the kidneys are a weak spot. But he barely grunts and then turns and smashes his fist into the man’s face and then ribs. The first attacker gives up, laying nearby.
The second guy tries to rally but Quinn just keeps going at him, going and going and going, like a force moving through the man, like the attacker is mist, air, nothing. Next, a knife is thrown from somewhere. Quinn dodges it. Another knife. It lodges intoQuinn’s forearm but he pulls it out like it’s a splinter. Blood begins to seep down his arm.
A new fighter enters the cleared dirt boundary, charging with wild eyes. Quinn’s eyes, in contrast, are calm. His face, his whole being seems almost serene, even as he delivers blow after blow. The new fighter is a much smaller man but he’s fast and well-trained. He manages to land a blow to Quinn’s kidneys, the same spot he was hit before. Smart.
But Quinn, even while huge and panting, levels him with a slam to the throat.
I gulp.
I’ve never seen anything like this.
Yet again, I was absolutely, completely wrong.
Quinn is not tired or soft.
And there’s no way in hell anyone would try to usurp him.
“Wife,” he says when the barrage has stopped.
Oh shit.
I forgot I was here.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin and breathe.I’m not afraid. I’m a fighter too. This is fine.
Quinn looks down at my body, which I realize is covered in goosebumps. I refuse to let myself shiver in my skimpy white cropped tank tops and leggings. It’s cooler out today than I thought, but that’s not why I have the chills right now. Quinn’s eyes travel up to my face again before commanding, “Mac, get her my jacket.”
His second grabs a jacket from a knot on a nearby tree where it was hung and walks to me. He starts to hold it out for me but the deep gravely voice cuts through all of us again, sharper this time, “She can put it on herself.”
“Thanks,” I say to Mac. I hate that my voice sounds weak. I look back at Quinn, straight in the eyes, holding the contact and refusing to back down, despite my instincts.
Quinn waits a beat, I think to see how long I’ll stand my ground, before saying, “Now, why don’t you be a sweet lass and go get us some lemonade?” My mouth parts at the audacity of this man. He hasn’t spoken to me directly in two days and he wants me to goget him some lemonade?Before I can protest he lifts a brow, “Please, wife.”
I shut my mouth, try to offer a quick smile, turn, and hurry away, before I accidentally tell my husband to kindly go fuck himself in front of all his men. Or a handful of them, anyway.
As I go I hear a bunch of his dogs approach. Behind me, his voice changes. Once I’m around the corner I pause to sneak a glance back. Quinn is squatting down to pet his muts. Not just pet them, but hug them. And now… is he…he is fucking talking in a bonafide high, crooning dog-mom voice, muttering their praises in Gaelic?
What the hell?!
