Page 68 of Broken By Silence
“Finally gonna settle some scores,” he announces. “The old-fashioned way. No more glaring across the kitchen table. Punches, bruises, blood—male therapy.”
Oscar cracks up silently, his shoulders shaking. His hands move quick.“He’s going down first,”he signs, aiming a wicked grin at Crew.
I sigh and translate. “He says you’re first.”
Crew gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Betrayal! Oscar, my future brother-husband! I can’t believe you!”
I roll my eyes, suppressing a grin. Roman’s laugh rumbles low, and Elijah just shakes his head, but no one else says a word.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The ring in the center is roped off and waiting, the canvas stained from a hundred other grudges worked out before ours.
Crew bounces on the balls of his feet like a kid on Christmas.Elijah stands with his arms crossed, jaw set so tight I swear I can hear his molars grind. Oscar’s leaning against the wall. His hands move.“I give it five minutes before someone needs stitches.”
I translate. “Good thing I brought a first aid kit,” Crew says, patting the beat-up duffel at his feet.
I rub my jaw. This is a mistake. I know it. But maybe it’s also necessary. We’ve been circling each other for weeks now. Orbiting in the same dark system, glaring, snapping, avoiding.
Lottie ties us together, sure, but the truth is, we don’t trust each other.
Not really.
Crew knows it. That’s why we’re here.
“Alright,” Crew claps his hands once, loud enough to echo. “Rules are simple. No gloves, no biting, no eye-gouging, and try not to hit the golden goods. Beyond that? Have at it.”
I arch a brow. “That’s not rules, Crew. That’s an invitation for murder.”
“Details,” he chirps, waving his hand dismissively.
Oscar’s hands move, a wicked grin on his face.“I’m hitting the husband.”
I don’t bother translating this time. The grin on his face says it all, and I know he needs this.
The ropes creakas Roman climbs into the ring, all sharp lines and his posture tense. He doesn’t bounce on his toes, doesn’t roll his shoulders. He just stands there, calm as stone, watching me like a wolf waiting to see if the deer will run.
“Get in,” he says simply.
I sigh and slide between the ropes.
Every part of my training in the Marines kicks in, and I search him for weaknesses. The obvious is that he’s still recovering. Bullet wounds don’t heal in just a few weeks, no matter how much he claims he’s fine, but I’m not here tofight dirty.
I flex my shoulders, slow my breath.
This isn’t about making him hurt. This is about moving on.
It’s about boundaries, respect, and consequences.
I raise my bare hands up, muscles coiled.
He hurt her.
She’s not just mine anymore—she loves all of them, and even if she’s not ready to admit it. I know. But that doesn’t make this any less necessary.
He needs tofeelit.
The medusa snakes stare back at me, coiling down his jaw, and a small part of me hates it because of what it represents.
The bell sounds. Crew’s obnoxious timer and Roman come at me immediately. His first strike is sharp, aimed at my face. I pivot, letting it glance past. He’s fast, but predictable.
