Uninvited (Uninvited, #1)(66)

He lets this sink in. Doubtlessly to feel and appreciate my chill of horror. I school my features, struggling to let nothing bleed through.

He continues, “If I hadn’t been tested, nobody would ever have known about me.”

The irony is that he’s right. Wainwright did something right getting this guy off the streets.

I struggle to free my arms. No luck there, I scan his fleshy, perspiring face. His nose, like the rest of him, is larger than average. Bulbous almost, veins popping along the outsides of his flaring nostrils. Before I chicken out, I lift my neck and crash my forehead into his nose. I hit him as hard as I can—overlooking the pain in my skull, knowing it’s only a fraction of the agony he’s feeling.

He howls and pulls back, slapping his hands over his nose.

It does nothing to block the gush of blood. I ignore it, shoving back my disgust at the dark red spray splattering my shirt.

Taking advantage of the moment, I jump to my feet. While he’s still down, I kick him in the stomach. Once. Twice.

He turns, angling his body into a protective ball, one hand still clutching his nose. I deliver a few more kicks, seizing my opportunity, knowing he could recover at any second and be on his feet. I simply act, not thinking about what I’m doing . . . about how it feels . . . heady and euphoric. He starts to push up, and I press my gloves together and bring them down on his head. He collapses back down from the blow.

My chest rises and falls with heavy pants. My arms hang at my sides. Incredulous, I hesitate, gawking at him . . . marveling that I beat him. All by myself. Grinning, I look around.

And that’s my fatal mistake.

He rushes me, shouldering my legs at the knees. I hit the ground like a limp doll. I fall harder than last time. My head collides into the mat so hard I think it rattles my brain. Jars my teeth and whips my neck.

He shows no mercy. This time his fist connects with my face in a vicious crack. The force stuns me. Every nerve in my face screams out. And when he brings his glove down a second time, I feel the skin split in my cheek. I bring my glove to my face.

My vision blurs, but I can make out his mangled face, the mashed nose dripping blood. His gloved fist is pulled back for another blow, and something tells me this time, when he hits me, I won’t stay conscious. It will knock me out. No way can I stay awake for more of this.

Then he’s gone.

I’m free. My aching lungs swell with air, but even that movement makes the pain in my face worse. Unbearable.

I force myself up, but my movements feel slow . . . like I’m underwater. My side screams and I clutch my ribs.

I hear them before I see them, before my gaze focuses, locating the pair on the mat. Sean wrestles with Tully, their bodies writhing and straining against each other.

Sean is fierce and wild, his body moving with a fluidity and ease that almost seems at odds with the power behind the violent blows he’s delivering every chance he gets. He’s getting more punches in than Tully. Pounding him in the face, the side of the head, the shoulders, the torso . . . anywhere he can reach. Finally, Tully’s not lifting his arms up to defend himself at all anymore. He just takes every blow, lies there like a sponge.

Dimly, I realize a crowd has gathered to watch. Several call out words of advice and encouragement. To Tully or Sean, I’m not sure.

Sitting on the mat, seeing what everyone else sees: Sean rescuing me, pummeling my opponent because I failed . . . because I had dropped my guard; disgust washes over me.

I stand, swaying a little. Another weakness. I blink, fight through the dizziness. Luckily, no one pays attention to me, all eyes are focused on Sean trouncing an insensible boy. I step forward to stop him and drop, falling to my knees. I don’t reach him before an instructor is there, tugging Sean away.

“C’mon, O’Rourke. He’s finished.”

He’s finished. Meaning Sean finished him. Not me. Disappointed in myself, I watch Sean as he climbs off Tully.

His gaze scans the crowd, searching. For me, I realize. As though he needs to see me and satisfy himself that I’m okay. His gaze lands on me, and his shoulders seem to relax, the rigidity slipping away ever so slightly, water through a sieve.

For a moment, something unfurls inside me and lightens. A loosening in my chest. A flutter in my stomach. And then I remember myself and what I am. What I’m supposed to be. . . .

Not some girl who swoons when a boy flexes his muscles. Not someone who should be letting her heart feel anything. In this place, feelings, sentiment, will only bring me down.

“O’Rourke?” The instructor faces him, his expression annoyed. “Why did you abandon your assigned activity?”

Sean says nothing. The instructor follows Sean’s gaze, glancing back at me and I resist the urge to cover my face. I can feel the warm blood trickling down from the gash in my cheek. He surveys me from head to toe with a quick sweep of his eyes. His lips quirk, amused. The instructor nods as if he understands perfectly. And I’m sure he does. Everyone does. Sean fought my battle because I made a mistake and dropped my guard.

The instructor sighs and shakes his head. “It’s critical for your training that you prove you can follow directions.” That said, he pats Sean on the shoulder, glancing down once at Tully on the mat. He snorts at the pitiable sight of him.

Sean might have broken away from what he was supposed to be doing and interfered in my training, but he demonstrated his strength. Apparently, that scored him some points today.