Page 9 of Knuckles & Knives
And if we do square off again, I’ll be ready, and I won’t hold back either.
Underestimate me at your peril.
Ghost winks at me before turning back to circle his fallen opponent like a predator deciding whether his prey is truly dead.
“Cocky bastard,” Dom mutters, but there’s grudging respect in his voice.
“Confidence,” Marcus corrects. “There’s a difference. Ghost has never lost a fight in two years of competition. He has reason to be confident.”
I grunt. “Have you forgotten already?” I murmur, studying Axel’s movements as the referee raises his hand in victory. “Everyone loses eventually. The trick is making sure you’re not the one to do it.”
Marcus makes a noncommittal sound that could mean anything. “Yes, of course. You did win.”
“There’s no asterisk,” I snap.
“Never. Either way, I suspect Ghost’s greatest opponent won’t be found in any ring.”
Something in his tone makes me look at him sharply, but his expression reveals nothing. The man is a walking enigma wrapped in expensive suits and quiet threats.
The crowd roars as Axel’s next opponent is announced, a mountain of a man called “The Butcher” whose reputation precedes him like a funeral procession. This fighter has killed men in the ring, and the crowd knows it. The betting boards light up with astronomical figures as money changes hands with desperate urgency.
“This should be interesting,” I murmur, leaning against the railing to get a better view.
“Bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you?” Dom’s voice carries a note I can’t quite identify. Disapproval? Arousal? With him, it’s often hard to tell the difference.
“I prefer to think of myself as professionally curious.” I don’t take my eyes off the ring as the fighters touch gloves. “Know your enemy, study their weaknesses, exploit their patterns. Basic survival.”
“Is that what we are to you?” The question comes from Marcus, so quietly I almost miss it over the crowd noise. “Enemies to be studied and exploited?”
I turn to face him fully, noting the way he’s positioned himself to block most of the room’s view of our conversation. “What else would you be?”
“Useful,” he says simply, holding out his arms as if to show off all he has to offer. “If you’re smart enough to see the possibilities.”
Before I can respond, the fight below explodes into motion. The Butcher charges like an enraged bull, clearly planning to end this quickly with overwhelming force. It’s a solid strategy against most opponents.
Axel isn’t most opponents, and I know firsthand that this technique won’t work.
Despite the earlier knockout, Ghost flows away from the charge like smoke, barely seeming to move but somehow ending up behind his attacker. The elbow strike he delivers to the base of The Butcher’s skull is surgical in its precision, hard enough to stagger but not quite enough to drop him.
“He’s playing with him,” I observe, my fascination overriding caution. “Why not end it quickly?”
“Because Ghost doesn’t fight for money,” Dom answers grimly. “He fights for the rush. The longer it lasts, the better he feels.”
That explains the almost euphoric expression on Axel’s face as he dances away from another wild swing. He’s not just winning. He’s high off the violence, drunk on the crowd’s bloodlust and his own superiority.
It’s beautiful and terrifying.
It also, somehow, cheapens my win against him. If he had fought like this against me, I wouldn’t have gotten the jump on him. That much is clear to see, and it infuriates me to no end.
“Who is he?” I mutter.
“Half-Korean and half-Puerto Rican,” Marcus answers. “No one knows where he came from or how he learned his skills. He showed up at the fight club one night and dominated every opponent. He’s been undefeated for two years… until you, of course.”
The Butcher, growing desperate, pulls a move that would be illegal in any sanctioned fight—a thumb thrust aimed at Axel’s eyes—but Axel anticipates it, catching the larger man’s wrist and using his own momentum against him. The resulting throw sends The Butcher crashing into the cage wall with enough force to rattle the entire structure.
“Magnificent,” Marcus murmurs beside me.
When I glance at him, I find those dark eyes fixed not on the ring but on me. The intensity of his gaze makes heat pool low in my belly despite every warning bell going off in my head.
