Page 29 of Shadowed With Fear

Surprisingly though, I’ve found I genuinely enjoy it. Watching her through the windows, and sometimes even inside the house through cracks in the door, has shown me a side of Dahlia I never knew about before.

She isn’t the same. Dahlia isn’t the girl she was years ago that was ready at the drop of a hat to rip someone’s head off. She seems…off. It’s only the moments when she becomes aware of my gaze that something shifts, and it’s like I’m staring back into the eyes of the girl I have known my whole life. Not the stranger that has taken hold of her body, living through her, and having her lose that impulsive, adventurous, outspoken streak that I had grown to appreciate. Even it is a pain in my ass.

“Did you hear me?” Alex asks impatiently.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m ready,” I mutter.

“Then let’s fucking go dude. Give ‘em hell. I got sixty bucks riding on this. You lose, you are losing sixty bucks too,” he laughs eying me. “I mean that. You’ll owe me.”

I snort. “Chill. It’ll be fine. I’ve been itching for a fight, you know that. You shoulda bet more.”

Alex shakes his head shoving me toward the door.

As it bursts open, the crowds cheer, become deafening.

Music blares throughout the room, bass thumping steadily, vibrating through the air.

God, I need this. I needed this atmosphere. The feeling of my anger, raw, unfiltered, flowing through me. No holding back in this ring.

The announcer begins his usual speech, ramping up the crowd. I shake out my shoulders, jump on my toes, roll my neck. I’m so fucking ready.

Alex squeezes my shoulders, placing the mouth guard on my teeth and whispers, “sixty bucks,” before inching out of the circle made by rope and buckets.

I laugh shaking my head. My hands are taped tightly, cotton stuffed between each knuckle. Balling my fists has the tape taut, pulling at my skin. The burn is motivation.

The other guy steps into the circle, but I don’t see his face. Not every detail that discerns him as human. My focus has narrowed, watching only his body as a whole, tracking each minute movement.

His left arm hangs loosely by his side, slightly lower than his right. Possible past injury. He throws a few practice jabs, my eyes following the shift of his weight from one foot to the other. Slight left in step.

Oh, yeah. This will be easy.

I can have some real fun.

The bell chimes, and hell begins.

The guy runs at me, full sprint, and I sidestep. All of the anger, resentment, hatred, and—sadly—jealousy bubbling beneath the surface rears its head. My fist connects with the side of his head. It snaps to the right. I laugh.

A maniacal, unhinged, feral laugh.

He whips his head back at me. Blood trickled from the edge of his mouth. He wipes it away, anger pouring off of him. His eyes are bloodshot. Sweat rolling down his face. Hands back up in front of his face, attempting a half ass shield.

I smirk at him, half lidded, waving my hand at him, taunting.

He tries the same move again, same result. A right hook on the edge of his jaw.

This time he spits the blood at my feet. He thinks it’s some kind of insult, but it only fuels me more.

He lunges to the left, but his right foot gives away his fake out. I lean with him, two jabs and a sidestep.

The crowd begins to roar. The sound drowning out the music.

Panting, he glances over his shoulder at the guy in his corner. Big mistake.

With his eyes off me, I move toward him, quickly, quietly. When he turns back, my hands are ruthless. Pounding over and over. Blood flies up my arms, over my chest. Spraying the cold floor in a mosaic of wrath and pain.

A laugh bubbles out of me again. The bell rings. Round One and done.

The guy’s body is motionless. Not dead, just out.