Page 22 of The Ache That Stayed

“Will you be able to handle it, pretty boy?” he asked.

He swung first. I let it land. The first punch slammed into my ribs—hard. The sound cracked through me, sharp and hollow. Pain flared, bright enough to almost drown everything else out. Almost. My teeth rang.

The second hit landed lower. The third clipped my jaw.

My vision blurred and the crowd roared.

“I’ll try.” I laughed, rubbing my jaw, and that made him angry.

He went for my side again. I felt something give—not break, but complain loudly. Every muscle roared with pain as my breathing turned shallow.

Then he leaned in and grinned.

“Do you always fight this way?” he sneered.

His eyes flicked over my face.

“Like somebody else get their hands on what you wanted?”

The words slid under my skin like venom, cutting deeper than his fists ever could.

The monster inside me broke its leash.

Flashes came before my eyes. Black lace. Red mouth. Limp in my arms. Her breath shallow.

Mine.

Mine to protect, to destroy myself over.

The leash inside me snapped loose. Most days I kept the worst parts of myself chained tight behind my ribs. Tonight the chain slipped.

I drove my forehead into his nose. Heard it crunch. Then skin split and blood sprayed across the floor like a confession. Drove him back with a knee to the gut, then another to the ribs, until his breath turned wet and panicked.

He swung blind and missed. I hit him until my hands went numb. Until the crowd stopped cheering and started wincing. Until he was on the floor, curled in on himself, blood pooling beneath his mouth like a confession he couldn’t take back.

The crowd roared, not in approval or outrage—release.

They didn’t see violence. They saw permission. Permission to be monsters for a few minutes, to let someone else bleed so they didn’t have to bleed themselves.

Someone tried to pull me off. I shook them off. I knelt, leaned close enough for him to hear me through the ringing in his ears.

“Next time,” I whispered in his ear, “choose your words better.”

Then I stood over him, chest heaving, blood running down my forearms—some mine, most not. Every inhale catching on bruised ribs.

Cash was shoved into my hand. I didn’t count it. As I turned away, a man stepped into my path. Older. Smarter. Eyes cold with calculation instead of fear.

“You cost me a lot of money tonight,” he said.

I leaned close enough that he could smell the violence still clinging to me.

“Too bad,” I spat, “you chose the wrong man to bet on.”

His jaw tightened. I walked past him without another word.

Outside, the cold Irish night slapped against my overheated skin. Steam rolled off me like I was something still cooking. I sucked in a breath that tasted like rain and rust. My ribs screamed with every breath, each inhale punishment, each exhale confession. Blood ran down my side, soaking into my shirt. Pain was a dear friend that kept me going.

I would usually head to a bar and get a fuck to blow off excess adrenaline. But today, I rode without thinking. Streets blurred. Corners passed. My body knew where to go long before my mind tried to reason me out.