“Good.” I swung, missing him by a hair’s breadth as he ducked. Fucker is fast. “I don’t listen to warnings. Never have.”

Mercer ducked to the side, avoiding another volley.

With his hands free from his pockets, he raised them like a boxer. If he’d had training, it wasn’t professional. He looked as if he favoured knives and shanking his enemies rather than the old-fashioned way of blows.

He returned my punch, wielding it with a precision I hadn’t expected.

I arched backward, narrowly missing being pummelled in the nose.

His face lost its French arrogance, reforming into a mask of cold-hearted evil.

We didn’t speak again as we circled each other.

I catalogued him with more respect, seeking his weaknesses and finding none. He studied me as a slaughterer would study the pig it was about to skin.

No soul left in his eyes. No compassion.

Just sheer-minded aggression.

I actually relaxed.

Men like him I knew. I spoke their language. It meant he was a worthy opponent. And when I handed his ass to him, it would be worth the new aches and bruises I’d undoubtedly be covered with.

Our assessment of each other happened in a split second—one breath and we knew all we needed about the other. As much as I didn’t want to admit, we were cut from the same cloth. Both outsiders to a world where love and friendship were the norms.

Somehow, I believed he’d missed out on that elusive feeling for most of his life—same as me. He’d been lonely—same as me. He’d channelled such flaws into unsatisfactory attributes—same as me.

But that was where our similarities ended.

He’d taken what wasn’t his to take.

That was treason and deserved consequence.

Forgetting the pain coursing through my blood, I inhaled deeply and let go.

I sank.

I embraced.

I round-housed him with my fractured ankle and swallowed the groan of agony.

He flew backward, landing on one knee, gasping as his lungs collapsed.

I advanced, ready to make short work of this. I wanted him to die so I could earn forgiveness for my crimes.

However, he soared up, sucker-punching me in the ribs.

I fought my body’s natural response to curl around the injury. Absorbing the fresh pain, I struck him again.

Die. Just die.

Time blurred as we danced in his foyer. He met me blow for blow—some landing, some not. His punches power-delivered and sharp-fast, but he still wasn’t as quick as I was.

We circled and snarled. We kicked and punched.

He struck with hard fists, breaking the thin skin on my forehead and sending a river of blood into my eyes. But it didn’t stop me from advancing—always advancing.

I was right when I thought him a worthy opponent. I was the better fighter. But he had a talent I hadn’t pre-empted—a talent that meant he not only stayed alive but also became more adapt at kicking my ass the longer we warred.

He watched and learned.

When I threw a crane kick followed by a sequence of Kung Fu chops designed to eliminate the enemy’s ability to breathe, he threw the same combination back at me—slightly sloppy and with untrained power—but enough to stop me from gaining ground.

Our breathing mixed with grunts and groans as we gave up our stance as men and returned to our natural state as beasts.

I threw a mismatch of uppercuts. He kicked at my knee caps.

Somewhere in our fight, the sound of women’s pleas rang. Men’s shouts tried to interrupt the roar in my head of win, win, win. But Mercer didn’t look away, and neither did I.

Punch.

Kick.

Fight.

Die, motherfucker, die.

All I knew was bone-crippling pain and a swimming mind. My ingrained skills at battling were the only thing marshalling my trembling limbs into action.

Every punch, a sickness bubbled in my veins.

Every kick, a weakness crept along my skin.

I wasn’t losing to him. I was losing to the fever and prior wounds steadily stripping me of power and stamina. I just hoped he couldn’t see how close I was to losing my grip on this reality.

My vision danced with spots and not from his punches.

My ears popped and affected my balance and not from his uppercuts.

It was my own goddamn body slowly condemning me.

Every injury, every gunshot and stitch and scab leeched me of my normal endurance.

Perhaps Selix was right, and I didn’t stand a hope of success. But I had to try for Pim. I had to prove to her—even if it was subconsciously—that I was still man enough to take care of her. Still feral and dangerous enough to keep the monsters of her past at bay.

And I’m fucking failing.

I struck harder, quicker, crueller.

Mercer gasped for breath, a mixture of blood and spit marring his chin.

Unprepared for yet another level of chaos, he lost ground quickly.

Tasting victory, I added yet another layer of crazy, throwing everything I had left, begging the fever in my blood to leave me alone and for my broken body to behave just a little fucking longer.

Tags: Pepper Winters Dollar Erotic
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