Ryley's Revenge (Gloves Off #2)(62)

His face paled and he closed his eyes before turning to me. “I think I know how they’re going to fight tonight. It’s not good, Ashleigh.”

“Tell me.”





FOR THE PAST couple of hours, I waited in the tiny cell with my head down. On the other side of the mirror, I knew there were people watching me, deciding on if I was worth bidding on. I didn’t give a shit if they did. All I cared about was getting into the ring.

“All right, Jameson, you’re up. Ready to go down in history?” Scar chuckled, opening the door wide.

Keeping my stare straight ahead, I stood up and rolled my neck. I had to block everyone and everything out, even if I wanted to bitch slap the smelly bastard in front of me. When I walked out of the room, there was a long hallway that opened up at the end. As soon as I turned the corner, the people exploded into cheers.

There were no announcements or music blaring over the speakers, only me walking down to the cage with Scar by my side. It was a fenced enclosure with barbwire across the top and spatters of blood across the mat. Judging by the sounds of the fight before mine, I’d say it was pretty bloody.

“Ooh, what do we have here?” Scar pointed out, glancing up to the ring. “It looks like your brother finally figured out what kind of weapon he wanted tonight.”

“Weapon? I wasn’t aware he was going to be a *.”

Scar burst out in laughter. “I’ll have to tell him you said that. No one’s ever been in the ring without one.”

“Well, let it go down in history, because I don’t need shit,” I growled.

“Suit yourself, dumb ass, it’s your funeral. The rules are your own.”

Up in the ring, there were two gray carts, with two men behind them, dressed in black robes. I couldn’t see their faces, nor could I see what was on the carts until I got into the ring. There were three sections with one side being a set of handwraps, the other a platter of what looked to be hot glue, and then the last . . . shards of glass. You have got to be f*cking kidding me. There was no way in hell I was putting that shit on my gloves.

I was led over to one cart and told to stay put while we waited on my brother to enter. I wasn’t a regular, so I didn’t get the introduction that Camden did. The people around the ring shouted out his name. Apparently, he went by Striker now.

Eyes wide, I stared at the man who used to be my brother—now my number one enemy. He looked nothing like the man I once knew. Steroids had made him bulkier, but size was never an issue. The real handicap came from Camden and I knowing each other’s weaknesses. What he didn’t know was, I’d worked on mine until I’d f*cking bled.

Climbing into the ring, Camden lifted his hands in the air triumphantly, as if he’d already won. “It’s nice to see you again, brother dear,” he chided. “Let’s get this party started.”

“Waiting on you, f*ckface.”

He wore his usual bright red and black shorts and red robe. When he lifted it off of his body, I couldn’t believe the amount of scars on his chest and back. It was a shame I wasn’t going to stoop to his level and add more. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, even though it was tempting.

Camden walked over to his cart and held out his hands, letting the robed guy wrap them. The man behind my cart reached for my hands, but I backed away, snarling my lip. I didn’t want anyone touching me. Camden tilted his head back in laughter when the hooded figure looked over at him.

“That’s his choice, leave him be,” Camden insisted. “It’s just a shame I don’t feel like playing fair.”

“Like you ever did,” I snapped, marching to the center of the ring. “You always felt the need to cheat to win against me. What makes this any different?”

Camden’s leer faded and he turned away so he could finish getting his fists prepped. He knew I was right. The brother I used to know before my father died would’ve fought me fairly, but that boy was long gone. In his place was a man full of lies and deceit. How the hell did he get so f*cked up?

When all was said and done, Camden dropped his robe on the mat and one of the black robed men picked it up on their way out of the ring. The glass on his fists reflected the lights around the room, reminding me I was without a weapon. I only had my fists to protect me. In that singular moment, I hated him with every fiber of my being. He’d tried to f*ck up my life and then challenged me to this fight. It should’ve been the other way around.

Scar joined us in the center of the ring, his eyes gleaming in delight. “It looks like this is going to be an interesting fight. Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked me, looking down at my gloved fists.

I wanted Camden to hurt, and feel the pain. I wanted to be the one to inflict the damage. “No,” I growled. Lifting my hardened gaze to my brother, I undid my gloves and handwraps, letting them fall to the floor. “This is what I want.”

Gasps erupted through the crowd as I dared my brother to challenge me fairly. We stared at each other, brother against brother, but the coldness in his demeanor still remained. I was completely unarmed, and he didn’t waver . . . he kept his glass fists. Fucking bastard.

“This just got interesting,” Scar announced. “Do you want timed rounds, or no interruptions?”

Camden and I said it together, “No interruptions.” As soon as I started, there was no way I was going to stop.