He swung a wild kick at my legs and missed. I grabbed one of his arms and wrenched it up behind his back. I cranked on it just hard enough to hear a loud pop and let it go. I didn’t want to break it, but jacking up one of his hands would save me more of those brutal body blows. I spit out a mouthful of blood and gasped as his free arm suddenly snaked around my neck. I don’t know how he got that kind of leverage, but he sure as hell was using it to his advantage. He squeezed and squeezed and I clawed at his skin until it was slippery with blood. I couldn’t breathe. He was straight choking me out.

Right before it was all said and done, I threw my head back as hard as I could because I could hear him snorting out breath in my ear. Luckily I had a superhard head, because even over the screaming crowd and the blood rushing in my ears, I heard the thin bones in his nose snap and the furious howl that followed. The second nose in as many weeks that I had broken, only this guy wasn’t Benny. He was juiced up and out for my blood. I jumped back as he barreled, unwieldy, toward me. My head hurt, my ribs had to be bruised, and the rusty taste of blood from my face and my newly reopened lip cut was filling my mouth. Someone in the crowd threw a beer bottle in the circle and it shattered at my feet. I guess maybe I should’ve thought first before tossing that glass over the railing.

I dodged him once, and then once again, and landed a solid blow to his knee with a kick on his last pass. I was getting tired, but he had chemical fuel to keep him going, even though his face looked like raw meat and his dislocated wrist was hanging at a weird angle at the end of his arm. It needed to end . . . like now. I was trying to put together the best way to make that happen, pinpoint his weakness, when he bent down and pulled something out of the side of his boot. I swore loudly and took an involuntary step back when the switchblade flicked open. The sight of the weapon literally made the crowd erupt. More glass and liquid I didn’t want to try and identify rained down on us. This wasn’t going to go well for me.

He charged again and I barely escaped the blade. I felt the razor-sharp tip skim across the taut and sweaty skin of my abdomen. I backed up, keeping one eye on him and one eye on the knife in his good hand.

“Shit.” His eyes were all kinds of crazy and out of control. He had to be hurting as much as I was, but there was no sign of it behind the glassed-over and vacant gaze due to the drugs. He parried, I moved. He thrust, and I jumped back. I realized the only way to get this over with was to let him get close enough for me to get the knife out of his hand.

I took a deep breath, stepped into his next forward motion, felt the blade slice cleanly across my ribs, high, close to my armpit, and locked my arm down so that he was stuck. We were now eye-to-eye. His nose was beyond fucked up and he was huffing and puffing like a bull. He wasn’t going to go down without a serious effort. I twisted, used the leverage I had despite my side being flayed wide open, and bent, and bent until I heard the bone crack and the knife clatter to the ground at our feet. He howled, screamed, and struggled to get me to let his now-useless arm go. I refused until he toppled to his knees in front of me, blood and snot smearing the black paint all across his face.

I put my knee under his chin so he had to look up at me.

“Hurt?”

He screamed a litany of swearwords at me.

“Seriously, dude. Are we done?” I squeezed the broken arm even tighter next to my gushing side. I was losing a ton of blood.

He made another noise and tried to grab for me with the hand I already dislocated. I sighed. I shoved him back and delivered a swift, nasty, totally dirty kick to the face. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over like a baby rhino taking a tranquilizer dart.

I heard the crowd go nuts, heard my name, but it was taking everything I had to stay upright. I saw Nassir nod at me, saw the circle start to tighten around me as the monster’s entourage tried to rouse him. I needed air. I needed to get the hell out of here.

Suddenly all I could see was wide green eyes full of concern. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding a lot.”

She handed me my T-shirt, and instead of putting it on, I bunched it up and stuffed it against my side. I felt the blood seep through the fabric instantly.

“I’ll live. I need to get my money from Nassir before he comes up with another stipulation or brilliant plan.”

She bit her lip and moved my hoodie to the side to show me a thick envelope in her other hand.

“I had Brysen count it while you were fighting. He handed it to me before you even threw the first punch. He must have been pretty confident you were going to win. It’s there, minus his cut.”

I blinked because her voice was going in and out and I was having a hard time keeping her face in focus.

“I need to get out of here.”

“You need a hospital.”

“Just a little patching up. That’s what Race used to do for me after I fought.”

Crap. I must be light-headed. I never would have told her that otherwise.

She tilted her head to the side and held out my hoodie. I needed her help getting my heavy arms into the sleeves. I just stared at her dumbly when she stuck her tiny hand into one of the pockets and pulled out my keys.

“Come on. I’ll take you to your mom’s and see if I can keep you among the living.”

“No one drives my car.” I sounded drunk. The words were slurred and I didn’t honestly know if I was going to make it as far as the suburbs.

“No one but me.”

She slid her tiny frame under my arm on my noninjured side and I almost collapsed on her. For the first time since I let Race take me to the hospital when I was sixteen, I relied on another human being to take care of me. I didn’t want to think what that meant for either one of us.

I KNEW SOMETHING WAS off with that text message. Just like I knew I was in trouble when I woke up on that couch and Bax had been holding me like I was something to be treasured. I never felt safe, never felt protected, even with Race in my life. I still knew every day was going to be an uphill battle. But in that instant, while I was all wrapped up in him, I felt like nothing bad could ever get to me again. That’s why I bolted. Sure, I didn’t know what his ultimate agenda with my brother was, but more than that, I was starting to think he might be developing a separate one for me. It wasn’t smart to send Brysen back to the Hill after the fight without me. I should be running from this guy as fast as I could, yet every time I turned around, I seemed to end up closer and closer to him.

It had taken every fiber of control I possessed not to return his text in the middle of the week, and there was no denying I dragged Brysen to that fight more to see him than out of any real hope of locating my brother. I was dangerously attracted to him; he was magnetic and so hard to get a handle on, and after the violence of that fight, I knew he had vicious brutality floating close to the surface of his tattooed skin. He was also losing way too much blood from that knife wound, and stubbornly refusing to let me take him to a hospital. Instead he had shoved some money in my hands and ordered me to stop at a drugstore and buy the basic first-aid stuff I would need to keep him from passing out from blood loss. He also told me to grab a couple tubes of superglue. I didn’t even want to know what his plan for that was.

By the time we got back to the bungalow, his eyes were squeezed shut and deep lines of pain were radiating out from the corners of each eye. His skin looked kind of waxy and pale, making that black star prominent and so ominous where it throbbed at his temple. I had to scramble around the side of the car and get the door open for him. I gasped when I saw the wet spread of blood that had soaked through the side of his hoodie.