Page 27 of Beguiled

“And in this corner, our latest contestant, a man who dared defy the Irish. And you know what happens when someone attempts to defy our leprechauns,” the announcer growled, his lips practically stuck to the microphone.

The roar was tremendous, so loud I clapped my hands over my ears. But only briefly. I was eager to hear the rest of the introduction.

“Betrayal means face the beast. You know what is necessary. You know the punishment he should face. You know exactly what is required.” The man with the microphone allowed the announcement to sink in. Within seconds, the crowd was bidding, money flying through the air, the odds increased. When the announcer pulled the microphone to his lips again, I was shocked that in a split second, all was quiet.

The silence was unnerving. I dared glance around the room, noticing almost every man was leaning forward, almost frothing at the mouth like famished wolves.

“He. Must. Die.” With that, the announcer stepped into the corner while the crowd’s thunderous response was completely deafening.

“Behold the traitor.”

It didn’t matter the opponent’s name or what he’d done to betray the Irish. The fact he was being brought out in shackles was enough of both the story and the reason the club was underground.

Someone was going to die tonight.

I was sick to my stomach, ready to claw my way out of here. However, I was no dummy. If I dared try to leave now, I might just find myself on center stage.

The chiseled young man tried to show no fear, but the glint of the powerful light over the stage allowed no lies. Still, as the shackles were removed, he stretched and shadow boxed in a way that showed this wasn’t his first rodeo. I was torn between trying to find a way of calling for help and escaping, never to return. But I stood my ground, reminding myself I was just one girl in a sea of powerful men.

And that I was going to kill Tawny. How could she put me in this position? How could she not warn me about the outcome?

“And in this corner, the one… the only… Born… Killer.”

With that, the announcer disappeared into the shadows and a man took his place, a shimmering blue light popping down from above, like the dawning of a thunderous morning where black and blue were the favored colors.

He was wearing a silk robe, like in the boxing matches my father used to watch on television. The other two fights had no such pomp and circumstance, the men coming out in little more than tight gym shorts.

This guy, this Born Killer was playing the part. Which was why big bucks were being spent, expensive drinks consumed and the guests frothing at the mouth.

When the fighter didn’t move, merely keeping his stance under the swirling lights, the crowd chanted again. Finally, he lifted his head, but the angle prevented me from seeing his face.

And dear God, I wanted to.

My breath was labored, my rapid heartbeat already driven into my throat and the crazy sense of excitement remained. Tickling every inch of skin like prickles of electricity.

Another thirty seconds passed and I was certain the crowd was going to break down the stage and beat the opponent to death themselves. Thank God, the Born Killer moved to the center of the stage, his back now to me. He threw up his arms, still playing the part.

Then the light panned onto the opponent. He’d broken into a sweat, maybe from his preparation, but I suspected Born Killer had a reputation to fit his name. My God. This was crazy. What in the hell was I doing here?

When the Born Killer finally dropped his robe, another roar came from the audience before they began to stamp their feet in earnest. This was getting out of hand.

Born Killer did a little dance around the ring.

Movement in the crowd to my left grabbed my attention. Four of the same well-dressed huge men walked through the same door I’d come from, moving to the sides once they’d found a position at the corner of the ring. A special elevated seat. I hadn’t noticed.

But I certainly did now as a man with almost all white hair stepped onto the small platform, taking his seat as if some king. He was in a suit but with no tie, a drink already in one hand, a cigar in the other. This was the owner of the club. A man to be reckoned with.

Born Killer turned and I was given an exquisite view of his muscular back. Oh, my goodness, the man was carved to utter perfection and I didn’t say that about most men. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, his broad shoulders giving way to a thin waist and a perfectly rounded butt that screamed for him to wear tight, well-worn blue jeans.

What continued to capture my attention was the viper painted on his back, reddish orange in color. I was surprised he’d chosen an eyelash viper, yet I understood the meaning.

Danger. Treachery. Malice.

A warning to anyone who fought against him.

His legs were powerful, thick thighs that I would not be able to wrap my hands around. My mind tripped over itself thinking about just how thick and long another muscle might be. Wow. I was crazy to think anything involving this fight was sexy. It was crazy and dangerous.

Everything about the fight was wrong.