How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(70)

He’d never met his opponent before this night. The boy was too young, too fresh-faced to have spent much time in the ring.

There was a typical Rigg cruelness to it. As if the devil had thrown him a puppy to batter.

An angry puppy. The young man gnashed his teeth and glared at Gabe as they waited for the call to begin.

Gabe understood. These moments before the violence began were when a fighter stripped down. Peeling away thoughts of the woman he loved and the life he wanted. This was a time to bore down to basics and tear one’s opponent apart. Not with fists. Not yet. First, he took a man to pieces in his mind. The body before him didn’t have a name. There was no wife or family or lover watching from the sidelines. His opponent became an obstacle. A threat to his existence. A marauder who’d take everything if he could.

For Gabe, besting this young man who was slavering to rip him limb from limb, would be a ladder out of the chaos and muck.

Forever.

Rigg took over the bullhorn, rasping through the mouthpiece in a smoke-deep roar. “Do yer worst, boys. Who craves a bit o’ blood?”

The crowd let out an earsplitting cry of enthusiasm, begging for the coming blood sport.

Gabe’s opponent danced straight toward him, assessing his speed and movement, before stepping back. The young man was light on his feet, and Gabe guessed he outweighed the boy by several stone.

The first blow came at him fast. He ducked and feinted left. The boy was quick, but Gabe was quicker.

He was older too, and his body immediately reminded him of the fact. As he circled the boy, shifting and diving to avoid two more jabs, muscles pulled and stretched. Twinges of pain shot across his back, and his bruised temple began to throb.

“Hit me,” the boy demanded. “Do something, you bastard.” He was dancing about so eagerly that he was already breathless.

Gabe didn’t mind letting the kid tire himself out.

“Kill him!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Others joined in. “Bash ’im.”

“Do the rotter’s head in.”

“Blood! Blood!” The chant swept across the bystanders in a wave, more voices added until the word became a crescendo.

The boy obeyed and came at Gabe with a series of swift, hard left, right punches.

Gabe took one, ducked another. Then he miscalculated and caught a punch straight to his jaw. He stumbled back. The boy was far stronger than he looked.

Scrawny bastard.

Blood rushed over his tongue. Old impulses sparked. Fury tangled with fear. Hunger twisted with hate. Shifting on his toes, he lunged forward and delivered a low cut to the boy’s midriff. Stepping back, he waited for his opponent to shift and landed another punch to the lad’s clean-shaven cheek.

The boy stumbled, shaking off the daze of his strike. Dizziness. Spots of black. Bells ringing in his ears. Gabe knew exactly what he was feeling. He’d learned to fight after being beaten by bullies far better at brawling than he was.

The boy spit blood into the sawdust, slammed his gloved fists together, tucked his head, and came at Gabe like a wild bull. A daring move but worth every ounce of energy spent if it got one’s opponent off his feet.

Unfortunately for the lad, Gabe anticipated the blow. Planting his feet wide, he took the boy’s weight as all the air rushed from his lungs. But he was still standing, and that’s what mattered. He hooked an arm around the boy’s shoulders as their bodies crashed together.

When his opponent tried to retreat, Gabe held him in place and delivered one quick jab to his ribs.

The punch had virtually no effect. Twisting away, the boy straightened to his full height and slammed a quick blow to Gabe’s face.

The strike caught him off guard. Gabe ducked away, but the boy saw his confusion. Saw his advantage. And swung again. The next blow caught Gabe in the temple. The spot where Rigg’s thugs had bashed him thoroughly. The spot Clary had cleaned so tenderly.

The thought of her cleared his mind. Chased the pain from his body. He had a purpose in this ring. He needed to get through this bout, see this night to its end, and get her back in his life.

The boy came at him again, and Gabe caught him low. Midriff, ribs. Two quick jabs. Left, right. The boy bent from the pain. Gabe hooked his jaw and sent him back on his arse.

Sawdust burst up, and Gabe tasted the wood pulp on his tongue.

As the boy bounced up on his feet, baring his teeth at Gabe like a rabid dog, a murmur swept the crowd, rolling toward them like thunder. Louder. Shouts mixed with cries of outrage.

“Scarper!” someone shouted into the bullhorn, “The rozzers is ’ere.”

Bodies moved in snarled clusters, hats toppling, arms flailing as some got pushed out of the way to make room for others.

As the crowd thinned, Gabe spotted the detective he’d met at the Ten Bells. The man tipped his bowler Gabe’s way, then nudged his chin toward the edge of the yard.

Two burly coppers had clapped Rigg’s behemoths in irons. Rigg himself had been swarmed by four uniformed constables—one in front, one in back, a man on each side. The detective knew as soon as Gabe mentioned Rigg’s name that he’d stumbled on the biggest catch of his career.

Gabe realized his opponent was still standing beside him when the boy’s gloves thudded into the sawdust. “You can be done with him now,” he told the boy. “Rigg. Whatever he had on you, he doesn’t own you anymore.”