Hurt (The Hurt Series, #1) Page 4

  It might have looked like it was for the crowd, but Callan felt it in his spine, tingling through his gut. This was a gift from his opponent to him, a method of intimidation. It was working.

  Gritting his teeth as tight as his fist, he ignored the propagated display, blocking out the music and roaring crowd. He wouldnae be distracted. A switch went off inside of him. Physical preparations had been made. It was time to mentally get in the game.

  Then he saw him.

  Towering two stories above the masses, The Mountain’s black eyes shone flat like the surface of a lagoon. His hungry stare latched into Callan with a physical chokehold. Depthless, soulless eyes.

  A socket of a mouth. A neck the size of Callan’s thigh. And shoulders the breadth of a man.

  Veins crowded his flesh, forming canyons on swollen muscle. Tattoos belted his bare stomach, twisting with sinew. Twin gutters angled down his carved hips, interrupted by a blue kilt with a bold white X. Scotland’s national flag.

  Legs, thick as logs, bunched with strength as his bare feet ate up the distance between them.

  Callan swallowed, his gaze encompassing the entire beast of a man. The patch of hair twisted atop his bald skull was a blatant fuck you. That knot represented confidence. No one could touch him.

  Rhys swore, but the precise curse disappeared in the thunder of the crowd. The Mountain spread his arms wide, like a peacock flaunts its feathers, and circled the sparring area, fists thumping his inked chest as if this was his show.

  Callan waited like a lamb before the sacrifice, as inconsequential as an appetizer before a feast. And when his opponent’s soulless gaze latched onto him again, he flashed a grin of rotting teeth, snapping as if he could taste the blood before the meal. The crowd exploded at the taunt.

  Callan handed off his water bottle to Rhys and shoved past The Mountain to the center of the ring. He dinnae come to perform. He came to fight.

  A priest approached with the conciliator, pinching a rosary cross between two fingers. The Mountain crowded in, breathing hard and rolling out any last kinks of muscle before the bell sounded.

  The Conciliator yelled so they could hear, “No biting. No finger snapping. No throat punching. No hits to the bollocks. No shoving into the crowd. When the fight’s called, you stop and back off. Understand?”

  They both nodded, and the priest took over, lifting a hand and holding out the cross. “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Callan dropped to a knee and bowed his head, never one to turn away a free blessing. When the priest called amen, he sprang to his feet and clenched his fists until his knuckles popped.

  Those precious seconds before the bell narrowed his focus to the point of a pin, rendering him momentarily deaf as everything in his peripheral vision disappeared. His heart thundered like a steady tribal drum, and then the bell clanked, propelling him into action, flinging him at his enemy.

  The rush of noise slammed through him with physical force, roaring loud enough to thicken the air. Callan MacGregor no longer existed. There was no him, no ego, no hunger, no thirst. Only the necessity of survival and animal instinct to conquer The Mountain.

  He threw the first punch, jarred by the solid, meaty wall of flesh that greeted his fist. The Mountain laughed, and Callan braced, drawing back and keeping his footfalls feather-light as he skirted his opponent’s first heavy blow.

  He jabbed, landing another punch in The Mountain’s solar plexus. He might only be able to land quick jabs, but if he peppered him with strategically placed hits, striking critical zones, he could weaken him and go in for the metaphorical kill. Hit just right, he could contract the diaphragm.

  He dropped a spattering of wisely placed jabs, thinking he’d made progress. But The Mountain tolerated him like the Queen’s guard would ignore a fly.

  Then The Mountain’s fist slammed into his temple, jostling the world out of focus and throwing him to the ground. Gravel and soot scraped under his palms as he blinked his eyes back into focus.

  The kick to his stomach lifted him off his hands and knees, tossing him to his side with a thud as he gasped for breath. Fire burned through his constricted lungs like fire.

  Screams of excitement were the only thing that brought a reprieve. The Mountain was a bit of a crowd pleaser, and couldnae resist parading about whenever his fans applauded.

  Callan’s arms shuttered close to his sides as he shoved to his feet and charged. He launched himself at the other man, climbing onto his back like a wild animal and using all the strength in his legs to constrict his breathing. He locked an arm around The Mountain’s thick neck, sealing his wrists in a tight hold, and squeezed.

  Punches rained over him as The Mountain tried to knock him off. He flailed and scratched, but Callan’s body had become a vise. Just a few more seconds and he’d pass out, and it would be over.

  The Mountain staggered, and the crowd roared. Like an ancient oak, he teetered and swayed. Then ... timber.

  There was no amount of bracing to protect Callan from the impact. The Mountain dropped, his full weight smacking onto the ground with a booming clatter of meat and bone, trapping Callan underneath. But it wasnae over.

  The second he loosened his grip, The Mountain had him. Callan couldnae throw him off or grapple across the floor. Crushed under the immense weight, his lungs fought for breath, claustrophobia setting in.

  His jaw locked as meaty fists reached back and closed around his throat, tightening like a tourniquet. Gravel clung to his sweaty arms. His legs flailed, his hands clawing at those strangling him.

  Circulation cut off. Blood rushed from his gashed eye, the old wound reopened by The Mountain’s punishing fists.

  His face bulged under the building pressure, his eyes protruding, and his hearing winking in and out. The fucker was gonna rip his head off with his bare hands.

  “He’s got him now!”

  Numbness teased his fraying consciousness, the roar of spectators fading to a low drone as his vision tunneled and flickered with blotches of black.

  “MacGregor! Get up, you cunt!” The screams sounded miles away.

  If he blacked out it would all be for naught. His palms slid over sweaty sinew as heaviness compressed his trachea. His ears popped and his eyes bulged from their sockets.

  Pinned beneath the heft of his weight, his upper body useless, he kicked and twisted his legs. Crushing weight slammed down on him, knocking the wind from his lungs until they contracted around hollow nothingness.

  Callan clawed for breath in a frenzy. The Mountain slammed down again, emptying every crevice of air until Callan heard death trying to slip through his dry throat. His thoughts spiraled, and panic choked him as his brain fought for oxygen.

  Drowning on arid, breathless nothingness, he struggled to break free. His need for oxygen was so frantic and overwhelming, he couldnae finish a single thought beyond the need to breathe.

  Fire burned in his hollow chest cavity as three hundred pounds of solid muscle crushed the literal life out of him, and his vision flickered more black than alive.

  His flailing limbs slowed, and his palms tingled, heavy and weak. His unhealed ribs splintered with every crushing slam.

  It was over. He was going to lose. He couldnae hold on, and the ability to tap out seemed to have escaped his flimsy control.

  Sliding his hand free to reach for the ground, he stilled, as his fingers caught on the knot of hair atop The Mountain’s head. Gavin’s words flickered through his oxygen-starved brain. The task of closing his fist seemed impossible.

  One finger at a time, he locked down his grip. And once he had ahold of his sweaty strands, he jerked with the last of his strength. Hair split from the root, tearing with a shredding pop of snapping follicles and punctured flesh. The Mountain released an unholy growl and spun off of him. But Callan wouldnae let go.

  The first gasp of air gave him the strength to roll to his side and protect his battered front. Wheezing in a lungful of air, he blinked hard, forcing his v
ision to clear.

  Fire corroded his airways, and his throat burned as if sliced by a thousand razor blades. A strange crackle filled his lungs, fluid choking him from places he couldnae cough up. Punctured lung? Not enough time to think.

  The Mountain screamed. Callan staggered to his feet, crumbling under his own weight. He needed to turn, to protect himself. Gasping for oxygen, he tried to find his opponent, tried to find balance.

  Gravity threw him like a tornado spawns wind. He gripped the fenced walls of the ring, his fingers the strongest appendage at his disposal. A horrid sound ripped through him as he forced a lungful of air down.

  The screams. Loud. Deafening. Pained. Gasping and panting, he clung to the fence and coughed hard.

  The Mountain flailed, marching and clutching his bleeding head, howling in delirious pain. Only then did Callan feel the tickle of hair knotted within his fist.

  Bellowing as crimson tears beaded on the surface of his head, the gigantic man cradled his skull and wobbled from heavy foot to heavy foot. It was now or never. Callan had no choice but to see this to the merciless end.

  He charged and unleashed like an automatic weapon, letting off punch after punch until the towering giant fell like Goliath, shaking the earth in a crash that vibrated the world with shock.

  In the brief silence of awe, Callan recognized his own surprise, but dinnae let it distract him. He pummeled flesh until bone lost shape and nothing but a sack of meat slapped under his fists.

  Wet punches landed, again and again, relentlessly stealing the victory. He couldnae stop until he’d ensured it was over.

  The announcement came like a whisper at the fringe of his mind, scrambled by rage and speckled with the beating sound of his fists. The Mountain was a slap of blood and tenderized muscle bleeding beneath him, but he couldnae stop.

  A bell rattled like a rushing freight train, and the conciliator caught his arm, flinging it into the air. “MacGregor wins!”

  Labored breaths sawed through his lungs and spectators poured forward, crowding and congratulating him. Shaken by the rushing need to survive, an unfit rage peeled through him, making him flinch away from the slightest touch.

  Too many people. Too many strange faces. He jerked into a corner, but more people crowded him, touching and congratulating.

  “Rhys?” He searched the sea of strangers, seeking familiarity.

  Blood slicked down his arms, coating his knuckles and crusting into his fingernails. Blood of another man.

  “Rhys!” Why was he not rushing to his side?

  “MacGregor the Conqueror!” Voices called, victorious excitement punctuating their praise.

  Panic welled up inside of him. The crowd made it impossible to see The Mountain. Was he alive? Had he killed him? “Rhys!”

  “Callan!”

  He spun, eyes as frantic as his rapidly beating heart. “Rhys?”

  “Callan, over here!”

  Spotting him, Callan shouldered off the hands stroking down his bloody arms and back. “Move!” He needed space.

  Rhys’s wide-gapped grin greeted him, a wild mix of thrilled shock on his face. “You were pure dead brilliant! Un-fucking-believable! I thought ye were done and then this animal came out of ye!”

  He gripped his shoulder. “Get me out of here.”

  “Ye destroyed him, ye magnificent beast!” He laughed in an almost maniacal, disbelieving way. “They’ll be talking about this for years!”

  His grip tightened, and he hauled him close and hissed, “Get the money and let’s go. Now.” Intoxicated by relief and joy, his words werenae penetrating Rhys’ euphoric haze. “Innis can stitch me up when we get home.”

  Rhys shook his head. “Callan, you daft cunt, there ain’t a mark on you!”

  He glanced at the rivulets of red sweating off of him. Not his blood.

  His ribs were going to need time, but... He glanced at his fists and stilled. Locks of hair still tangled between his battered knuckles. Jesus.

  “The money.”

  “I hear ya. Come along.” Once they were moving, Rhys looked back. “Would it kill ye to be a little happy about the win?”

  He’d be happy once he had that thirty-five hundred pounds in his hand. Got it home and into the tin. They might finally have enough for a down payment on a house, enough to start over.

  Then the rest would come. He wanted to remember what it felt like not to physically ache from fighting. It would feel damn good to declare tonight as his last fight—go out the undefeated champion.

  “Outstanding show tonight, MacGregor!” A hand clapped down on his back. “I doubt anyone will have the bollocks to fight you now.”

  He tasted the words before pushing them out. “Tonight’s it. I’ll not be fighting anymore.”

  Rhys pivoted, another look of shock stealing over his face, this one robbing him of his smile. “What?”

  “I’m through. But I’ll be thankin’ ye for my money.” He held out a hand, and the startled clerk slid the heavy envelope into his palm.

  “Are you certain? Maybe ye just need a break.”

  Having heard the words out loud, he never wanted to pull them back. It was the first time he truly admitted how deeply he hated the violence he’d welcomed into his life. He wanted simplicity and peace. He wanted to have the time and normalcy to know a woman and a soft touch, things his circumstances hadnae allowed so far.

  “If I never have to fight again I’m certain I’ll be a satisfied man.”

  “What the bloody fuck does satisfaction have te do with it?” The clerk scowled. “You want te be satisfied, find a whore te fuck. Then come back here and do what God intended you te do.”

  Callan glared at the man. Leaning close, he hissed, “Don’t assume to know anything about my God and His intentions for me.”

  They wouldnae be satisfied until he wore a mask of disfigurements and spoke in slurs. His life needed to be worth more than that.

  Rhys grabbed his arm, tugging him away from the clerk’s desk. “Come on.”

  Good thing, because fury still boiled close to the surface. He snagged the envelope and shoved his way outside.

  The second they made it away from the smothering crowds his friend turned on him. “What the fuck, Callan? You’re already tellin’ people you’re never fighting again? Maybe wait until yer head clears.”

  “This is it. I’m done.”

  The incredulous look on Rhys' face wasnae worth the small commission Callan shared with him. “Were ye plannin’ on telling me before ye told the world?”

  “No, because it’s not yer decision and I willnae be talked out of it.”

  He shook his head. “Callan, ye just destroyed the most renowned fighter out there. Ye took the bloody title, and now you’re just gonna quit?”

  “Think of it more along the lines of retirement.”

  “You’ve lost yer mind. You’re in higher demand now than ever before. They’ll pay whatever you want.”

  “I dinnae enjoy having the pulp beat out of me. Nor do I enjoy hurting other men. This isnae the life I want.”

  “But Callan—”

  “I said no,” he snapped. “I’ve said my piece, and tha’ is the end of it. You dinnae ken what it feels like te split someone’s flesh open with yer bare hands night after night, te taste their blood on your lips and breathe it in for days. Ye cannae imagine the feel of having yer eyes nearly pushed from the sockets. I’ve done what I’ve set out te do, and it’s over, Rhys. I want te live a life I can be proud of, a life where Innis and Gavin dinnae have te hide behind locked doors or fear I’ll come home bludgeoned out of my mind. I’m through living in the shadows. Do ye understand?”

  He looked like a petulant child who just lost his balloon. “Aye.”

  Though they walked home side by side, they seemed to experience polar opposite journeys. Callan felt ten stones lighter, as if he’d been given an insurmountable gift. Rhys seemed to be traveling the last mile of death row, carryin’ the weight of the world on his shou
lders.

  Callan’s head was clear. So clear, even rogue thoughts lacked purchase and flitted in and out without tamping down in the hammock of his mind. His worries seemed to be mentally lounging for what felt like the first time in a long time.

  Then something caught in the damp air, a fizzling tinge that dinnae belong. His nose twitched, pulling him out of the comfortable nothingness and luring his glance to the darkened roads ahead.

  Smoke. It billowed in a black funnel, camouflaged by the navy blue sky. A glow of light wavered low to the ground, hidden by buildings, but illuminating the black clouds billowing like heavy smog about the moon.

  The scent burned so strong the taste of blood in his sinuses disappeared. Rhys’s concern mirrored his own, and their pace doubled.

  Callan’s blood caught a chill. “Jesus.” His tired legs were suddenly running, racing down the familiar blocks that lead to his home.

  His knees pumped. A foreboding, errant thought drifted through his mind, this time anchoring down hard, but Callan dinnae want to think it. Couldnae think it.

  “Callan, wait!” Rhys raced after him, but the crackling air called like a siren and Callan couldnae slow his steps.

  His worst nightmare spilled out before his eyes as he turned the corner. Enormous flames clawed at his home, licking and swallowing the walls with such intensity the place was almost unrecognizable.

  “Innis! Gavin!”

  Flames beat over the walls of his house, engulfing the peak of the second floor and billowing out of every window. The noise was like nothing he ever heard, hissing and spitting like roaring hellholes hungry for life.

  He shoved his way through the people gathered on the road. Why was everyone just standing there?

  “Innis!” He searched the neighbors, jerking women to face him and shoving every unfamiliar face away. “Gavin?”

  The stench and heat beat at his back. Faces deformed under the flicker of red and orange. They werenae there.

  “Have you seen my brother and sister?” His gaze hunted through the crowd “Gavin! Innis!”

  Sirens blared, as lights smeared the houses in a hideous blend of glowing reds. Rhys raced to his side, more frantic than Callan had ever seen him. “Where are they? Where’s Innis?”