And then he’s coming at me again, again reaching for me—for my arm and the scarf wrapped around it.
That’s what he wants?
I punch him again, but he doesn’t retreat. He clamps his hand so tightly around my forearm I think the bone will break.
“She should have given it to me,” he hisses.
“Why?”
“I’m her son.”
In a shocked daze, I look into his eyes and I believe him. Ellen is his mother. But then why the fuck did she do that? Why did she pay money to spend time with me?
His next move is a blur as he punches me in the gut so hard I double over and crash to my knees. Acid rises in my throat and I struggle not to puke. Struggle to breathe.
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he’s saying, towering above me, in the hush spreading through the crowd. “Now I’ll kill you and she’ll watch.”
Fuck.
“And then I’ll have your girlfriend for dessert.” He grins down at me. “Did you know they promised her to me? Promised her to the winner.”
No. Fucking wrong thing to say. Nobody touches Pax. Least of all this asshole.
I lunge for his legs, and I feel the moment his balance wavers, then he’s falling. He drops like a huge tree, twisting as he does, so that he drops sideways.
Need to get him on his stomach. I launch myself at him, knock him back down before he manages to sit up, and throw a punch to his jaw that connects with a sickening crack. His head whips to the side and blood dribbles from his lips.
“I don’t fucking care who your mommy is,” I inform him, punching him again and rolling him onto his stomach. “I’m not doing this for her. I’m doing this for me, and for Markus.”
I throw myself on top of him, crushing him to the floor with my whole weight, and pull his arms to the back, twisting them.
“Give up,” I hiss, “or I break them both.”
“You could kill me,” he says, huffing. “Get up and crush my neck with your boot.”
“Like you did to Markus? Newsflash, asshole.” I lean closer to his ear, twisting his arms more until he groans. “I’m not you. Never will be. Be damn thankful for that. Now, do you give up?”
The referee approaches cautiously, his whistle at his lips.
“She’ll never adopt you, you know,” he mutters, gasps when I twist his arms a little more, the bones starting to crack. “You’ll never really be her son.”
“You really are a selfish prick.” I settle down, holding his arms at the breaking point, waiting for the referee to decide if to say something yet or not. “I’m not trying to fucking steal your mother, goddammit. You’re the one pushing her away. Just…” Shit, every breath is a struggle. “Just admit defeat. Last warning.”
Because I’m feeling kinda strange, like I’m not really there. Like the darkness teasing the edges of my consciousness might spread any moment and swallow me whole.
“Dammit, man.” I twist his right arm, and the crack of the bone breaking is too loud in my ears. He gives an agonized cry, and jerks.
“You win!” He whimpers. “You win.”
“Hear that?” I look up, nodding at the referee. “Did you fucking hear that?”
“Yeah.”
He looks nervous, but he comes and gives me a hand up. I almost don’t take it, shaking with adrenaline and exhaustion, but then I find I don’t have the strength to get up on my own and accept it.
Even through the adrenaline haze, my ribs burn like fire, and my jaw feels two sizes too big for my face, swollen and bruised. When he grabs my hand and lifts it to announce my victory, it’s all I can do not to scream with the pain in my side.
“Hail the victor, Riot Callahan!”