Page 13 of The Clinch
Crimson is coming. I know it before it happens.
My brain splinters into triage. Orbital fracture risk. Concussion. Possible spinal damage?—
“Stop!” I scream.
Travis comes back wild, grabbing, kicking, trying to drag Leo down. He fights dirty, knee driving toward Leo’s ribs, fingers clawing for leverage.
Leo pivots, keeps his feet, answers with force. Pure boxing. Every punch precise. Every movement economical. Deadly.
But this isn’t a ring. It’s a bar. And there are no rules.
Travis surges in again, manages to slam a knee hard into Leo’s side. I feel it low and sick in my gut.
I’ve seen what happens when men lose everything they’ve built. When the ring closes. When the career ends.
The anger doesn’t disappear—it sharpens.
If Leo falls, it would be because of me. But I can’t make the words come out. Part of me knows what this could cost him. Part of me doesn’t care.
I need to see Travis bleed. I cannot go back.
Leo adapts instantly, hooks an arm, twists his hips, shoves Travis off balance. Not pretty or textbook, but effective.
His fist crashes into Travis’s face again. The crack of bone echoes in my chest. I taste copper in the air, or maybe I’m biting my lip. My ears ring from the impact.
Travis staggers, red streaming down his face, one eye already swelling shut. I see it forming even as it happens—inflammation, discoloration.
I cut the thought off.
This is what I do. I catalog damage. I measure injury.
It’s the only way I know how to survive watching it.
I can’t look away.
The bar has exploded. People shouting, filming, stepping back. Drinks shatter on the floor.
And Eden is watching her brother throwing punches in a club because of me.
Travis laughs—actually laughs—blood coating his teeth. The sucker is built for pain, enjoys it even. “That all you got?” he spits.
Leo doesn’t answer. He drives forward, fists a blur, backing Travis into a pillar. A left hook barrels into Travis’s cheek. A right snaps his head back.
I know that sound. Broken nose. Maybe worse.
Part of me wants to run. Part of me wants to check Leo’s knuckles, his ribs, his breathing.
Part of me—the part I hate—feels relief.
At least this time it isn’t me under his fists.
At least this time someone big is hitting back.
The feeling is instant. Shameful.
I should want this stopped. Should care that they’re destroying each other.
I don’t.
