Cedric Cage? Jesus. Was I set up? Every fucking person in this room knows that Cage is vicious and unpredictable. I thought he was banned from the ring forever, but it seems the organizer of tonight’s events has no qualms about hiring a bloody killer for the battle tonight.
He races onto the stage as if he can’t be bothered to slow down, and I immediately take my stance. I look him over, and my blood chills just looking at him. His shaved head seems to magnify his features. One eye’s already half-swollen shut, like he brawled with someone on the way in. Good. Maybe that’ll give me an advantage.
He has scars along his chest and abdomen, as if he suffered street fights in his youth. His eyes are cold and soulless, like looking at the face of a corpse, and it sends a chill straight down my spine. I’m no saint, but this man’s known for his brutality and the way he stops at nothing to win a fight.
He spits to the side and gives me a wide, toothless grin.
“Y’alright, McCarthy?” he says. His voice is oily and nasally, and I have the distinct feeling I’m speaking with a rat.
“Name’s not McCarthy.”
He shakes his head. “You bear their ink, you’re fucking McCarthy.”
I crack my neck and start bouncing on my feet to warm up.
“Alright. You?”
“Fucking brilliant,” he says through his missing teeth. He takes a step toward me. “I fucking hate the McCarthys,” he says softly, so only I can hear him. He doesn’t break eye contact. “One of my life goals is to wipe the floor with a McCarthy. Bucket list, ya might say.”
“Is it?” I ask. “Sorry to disappoint you, son, but today won’t be that day.”
“We’ll see about that.”
We bump fists, ready for the match to being.
Before the sound of the bell’s stopped echoing, he decks me, catches me straight in the solar plexus, winding me. Fucking cheater wasn’t supposed to strike that fast, but the referee must feel the buzz of the overexcited crowd. He doesn’t call it.
I duck his next blow and land one of my own, square on his chest. He falls back, and when he comes returns to me, his eyes are heated, his look venomous with rage. He attacks.
I deflect and block, duck each blow, until he’s winded. I fall easily into my training, remembering every word Nolan gave me, every lesson I practiced until it’s become part of who I am. I bob and weave, duck and strike. Lachlan taught me that. I hope he sees me. I hope he’s proud.
I pivot and spin, and he catches me in the ribcage. I double over, and he uses that opportunity to strike me again, but I’m thinner and in better shape than he is. With rapid movements I duck and strike, duck and strike, until every single fucking punch he throws hits thin air, and every single punch I throw hits its target.
Adrenaline surges through me, my energy at an all-time high. I can feel him weakening, can see him beginning to cave. He’s not nimble enough. He can’t fight someone who’s been trained like I have.
Cage strikes my head, and my world pivots and swirls. The crowd screams in fury, booing the referee when he hits my head again. Fucking illegal move.
The referee blows his whistle, and I hear Lachlan nearby. I’m dizzy and dazed, but I will myself to get onto my feet. He’s been docked points for the illegal punch, but he won’t fucking care if immobilizing me wins him the match.
Cage seems angrier. He’s at me now, throwing punch after punch. I can’t deflect them anymore. They’re coming too fast, too furious, and I can’t block them. The ref blows his whistle. The crowd’s hysterical.
And then I know. It’s as clear to me as fucking anything, my Clan instincts screaming.
He doesn’t care about rules. He’s trying to kill me.
Christ.
I see a flash of silver in his hand seconds before he strikes at me, but I’m fast enough to deflect the blow so only the very tip of his knife nicks me. I swivel, grab his arm, and in one vicious move, yank it at a right angle until I hear a snap. He howls with rage and pain. I snapped fucking bone.
The crowd screams, the referee’s at us, but this isn’t a fight anymore but a bloody brawl to the death. He stabs at me again and I grab his wrist, throw him to the ground, and pin him beneath me. I hold his knife, my hand trembling with the temptation to slice his fucking throat right here in the ring, in front of fucking everyone watching.
I hold his knife against his throat.
“Who put you up to this? Who fucking did?” The fighter in me’s gone. Now I’m the cold-blooded McCarthy Clan enforcer.
Trained to interrogate. Trained to punish. Trained to kill.
He’s whimpering and crying like a fucking pussy, shaking his head from side to side. His broken arm hangs uselessly to the side, and he howls in pain. Strong arms are on me, and others are restraining him, but I shrug them off.
“Easy, now, Tiernan. Fight’s over.”
It isn’t the referee or a paid official, but Lachlan. He’s leapt onto the ring, his eyes furious. He’s prepared to defend me. His arm’s around me and the ref’s got my opponent. Lachlan signals to someone, and seconds later, I recognize Officer Walsh coming onto the scene.
“To the changing room,” Lachlan says, half dragging me off. “Now.”
My eyes go immediately to where the girls sat, scanning for the woman I know. But the seats are empty.
Chapter 4
Aisling
Oh my God. Oh my God.
When I entered the arena, I never imagined I’d encounter the men of the Clan. We’re nowhere near Ballyhock centre, and yet here they are. I don’t know why I’m surprised. They’re allowed to visit places like this, and I know that
