Crave

. . . what you’re waitin’ for!”

Isaac took off his sweatshirt and his combats, leaving them on the floor, and then he prowled the ring, his chin down, his eyes glaring out from under his brows. His shirt stretched tightly across his pecs, and his arms were carved with power even as they hung loosely at his sides. Heading into the fight, he was all muscle and bone and vein, his shoulders so wide he looked like he could bench-press the damn building.

As he clawed up the cage and landed on bare feet inside, the roar of the crowd rang her head like a bell and turned her spine into an adrenaline conductor. In the glow of the eight camping lanterns that hung off the support poles, her client was part gladiator, part animal, a deadly package ready to do what he’d clearly been trained for.

Unfortunately, the opponent who swung over the top and landed across from him was nearly a mirror image of him: same brutal build, same height, same deadly look—even dressed the same way, his muscle shirt showing plenty of the snake tattoo that wound its way around his shoulders and neck. And while the audience hollered and closed in, the two circled each other, looking for an opportunity, arms and chests and thighs tensed.

Isaac went in first, his body swinging around, his foot snapping out and catching the other man in the side with a blow so vicious, she was willing to bet his target’s ancestors felt it in their graves.

It all happened so fast. The two fell into a rhythm of strikes and dodges, their muscle shirts quickly dampening around the neck and down the back, the buttery yellow lamplight making it seem as if they were fighting in a ring of fire. The contacts, when made, were the kind that sounded like gunshots, the hard, resonant impacts carrying over the churning, restless crowd. Blood flew—from the cut on Isaac’s head that was quickly reopened and then from a split in the opponent’s lip. Neither fighter seemed to care, but the kibitzers loved it sure as if they were vampires—

A hand on her ass whipped her head around.

Moving back sharply, she glared at the guy with the wandering palm. “I beg your pardon.”

He seemed momentarily surprised, and then his bouncing stare narrowed. “Hey . . . what you doing here?”

The question was posed as if he’d recognized her.

Then again, he could have been talking to Santa Claus and taking it seriously—his face was slick with sweat and half of it twitched like he had an electrical short in his cheek. He was obviously tweaking—and God knew she was an expert in making that diagnosis.

“Excuse me,” she said, walking away.

He followed. Just her luck, the one idiot in the place who was more interested in hitting on her than in the fight he’d come to see.

He grabbed her arm, pulling at her. “I know you—”

“Get your hand off me—”

“What’s your name—”

Grier snapped herself free. “None of your business.”

He jumped at her in the space between one heartbeat and the next: The three feet between them abruptly became three inches. “You’re wicked touchy. You think you’re better than me, bitch?”

Grier didn’t budge her body, but took the stun gun out and slipped the safety pin into the grip. Putting the weapon within striking distance of the front of his jeans, she bit out, “If you don’t get the hell away from me, I’m going to shoot six hundred and twenty-five thousand volts through your jewels. On three. One . . . two . . .”

Before she got to trigger time, he shuffled back and held quaky hands up. “I didn’t mean . . . I just thought I knew you. . . .”

As he wandered away, she kept the stun gun out and took a deep breath. Maybe she had met him during her searches for Daniel—but he was clearly out of his mind and she was in enough hot water already.

Refocusing on the ring, she looked up—

Just in time to see Isaac go down like a stone.

Fighting Matthias’s second in command was a pleasure. Isaac had never trusted or liked the guy, and having a shot at the bastard had been an unspoken career goal.

Ah, the irony. Just as he was getting out, he got his chance—

Wham!

As right hooks went, the fucking thing was a bulldozer, and it caught Isaac square in the jaw, kicking his skull back and causing all kinds of trouble: Given that the brain was nothing but a loose sponge in a snow globe, his mental matter went haywire, banging around its hard bone home and rendering him senseless and off balance.

All things considered, he’d been more worried about a weapon of the metal variety, but knuckles worked. Fuckin’ hell, they worked—

That was the last thought he had as the floor of the octagon leaped up to greet him, its hi-how’re-ya just as much a rocket as his former comrade’s fist.

Good thing he was the Energizer Bunny.

He was up a second after he back-flatted—even though his legs were numb and loose and his vision was like a TV that needed its knobs adjusted. Lunging, he was all instinct and will, proof that the mind could override the body’s pain receptors—at least for a little while. He tackled his opponent around the waist and drove him into the ground; then flipped him over onto his stomach and wrenched his arm back, pulling the thing like it was rope.

On a crack, something gave out and Isaac abruptly had to catch himself from falling.

The crowd went nuts, all kinds of fuckin’ A ricocheting around the half-finished lobby until a shrill whistle cut through the roar. At first, he assumed the sound was just an extension of the chaos in his head, but then he realized that someone had stepped into the ring. It was the promoter, and for once, the bastard’s face was a little pasty.

“I’m calling the fight,” he yelled as he grabbed Isaac’s wrist and yanked it into the air. “Winner!” Leaning in, he hissed, “Let go of him.”

Isaac couldn’t figure out what the guy’s problem was—

His eyes finally focused properly, and well, what do you know. Matthias’s number two needed an X-ray, a cast, and maybe a couple of screws: His humerus protruded out of his skin like a snapped-off, bloodied stick, the arm broken and then some.

Isaac jumped off and backed up against the chain link, his breath pumping in and out of his mouth. His opponent was on his feet nearly as quickly and he held the hand that flopped casually, like he had nothing more exciting than a bug bite wrong with him.

As their stares met and the guy smiled in that way of his, Isaac thought . . . shit, this fight had been nothing but a warning shot across his bow.

A message that they were on him.

An invitation to run.

Fine. Fuck Matthias. And that compound fracture was his response: They could take him out but he was going to do some serious damage on his way to the grave.

Isaac didn’t hang around. He popped up onto the links and sprang himself over the lip. Fortunately, the crowd knew better than to get too close, so he was able to quickly head for Jim—

He slammed right into his public defender.

“Christ!” he barked, jumping back from the woman.

“Actually, it’s Childe. With an ‘e.’” She cocked an eyebrow. “Thought I’d try the taxi offer again—you need a ride back to Boston? Or are you not heading in that direction?”

Momentarily forgetting his manners, he bit out, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same. Considering that one of the provisions of your bail is that you not participate in illegal cage fighting. And that realllllly didn’t look like a game of Parcheesi you just played. You broke that man’s arm.”

Isaac glanced around, wondering what the quickest way to the door was—because she did not belong in this group of roughnecks and he had to get her out of here. “Look, can we go outside—”

“What are you thinking? Showing up here and fighting?”

“I was going to come to see you.”