I flinch, pressing back against Remington as if the claws are coming at me instead of the sin in the ring. Ford’s taunting his opponent, only enraging the guy more, making him sloppy.
Phoenix glances at me, then puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, gorgeous, don’t worry about it. Ford’s never lost a fight, and he’s not about to now. He’s just teasing him, see? He’s gonna come out of this just fine.”
“It would serve him right to lose a fight once in a while,” Beckett notes. “It might make him humble for once.”
Phoenix’s hand drops as he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at Beckett, but the tall man ignores him, keeping his gaze fixed on the fight.
Ford’s up against the chains, and I can’t help but wonder how he’s going to defeat someone who’s made of so much muscle, someone who must weigh twice what he does—
And then Ford explodes into action. He leaps at the werewolf, fists flying so fast I can’t even see them properly. There’s a snarl on Ford’s face, a vicious kind of glee that I’ve never seen before, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s his rage. He’s waited until his opponent is cocky and worn out, and now he’s taking his chance.
Again and again, Ford hits his opponent, striking him hard right in the jaw as blood and spit go flying.
This is how he wins, I think suddenly. This pure, focused rage.
I’ve never seen anyone channel anger like this. He probably doesn’t even feel his own injuries or fatigue. He doesn’t seem to be paying attention to the world around him; the screams and yells of the crowd fall on deaf ears. He’s not letting his opponent distract him in any way.
He’s just unleashing his fury.
Ford pummels his opponent until the werewolf collapses to his knees. My stomach twists, and Phoenix whoops. I can’t even see the man’s face anymore, it’s so obscured by the blood and by Ford’s fists.
“I might be sick,” I admit, my voice strained.
“Wrath’s not your sin, huh? I’m not surprised.” Phoenix’s words are flippant, but he does seem a little worried as he glances at me. “Geez, Remi, she’s going fucking green. Get her some water or something.”
“I’m a chef, not a wizard. There’s a difference. I can’t conjure food out of thin air.” Remington rubs my shoulders, massaging my back. “You okay?”
I nod. I’m not going to throw up or anything, I don’t think. But it really is a lot.
There’s something almost beautiful about how Ford moves. He’s at the top of his game, an artist of violence, graceful and deadly. His muscles are glistening with sweat, and they shift and ripple, growing taut as he winds them up.
It’s kind of like watching a dancer. I’m entranced in spite of myself.
Ford’s opponent slumps to the ground, and he doesn’t get back up again. The crowd roars as a burly announcer leaps into the ring and yanks Ford’s hand up into the air, declaring him the victor and “reigning champion.”
“All right,” Beckett drawls. “Now’s our chance.”
The crowd starts moving around, calling for the next match or yelling for an autograph from Ford. Some are yelling for a lot more than an autograph, and Phoenix snorts in amusement. The announcer begins introducing the next pair of fighters as people who look like medics of some kind rush up to take care of the downed werewolf. Beckett begins to move, cutting a swath through the crowd, and the rest of us follow.
We make our way through to the back, where it’s dingy and dark, and pass down a short, dark hallway before we emerge into the locker rooms.
Ew, I bet there’s mold everywhere here. It looks like the kind of place where rats hang out in the corners.
Ford’s made his way here too and is undoing the tape around his knuckles, sitting on a bench in the middle of the room. He stands up as we enter, his legs spread a bit, one foot slightly behind the other. A fight stance, I realize. Or not quite a fight stance, but the preparation of one. He’s ready to drop into it at any moment.
He’s glaring at us with such anger that I’m taken aback, but then Ford growls, “Beckett, you son of a bitch,” and I realize that he’s not glaring at all of us—just at his oldest brother.
“Ford,” Beckett replies, more restrained than his brother but still sounding pissed off. “Wasting yourself as usual, I see.”
“You condescending, controlling prick—” Ford snaps, stalking forward. “I told you if you ever showed your face around here again, I was gonna beat you senseless. You really so bored you need to get the shit kicked out of you to find somethin’ to occupy your time? Huh? Done with bein’ pampered in your fancy fuckin’ mansion?”
Ford really is beautiful, hovering on the edge between soft boyishness and pure, muscled man, and just watching the way his body moves causes heat to stir inside of me. But the look on his face is nothing short of murderous.
I remember what he did to his opponent in the ring, and that was when he was fighting for sport, holding back. How is he going to be when he’s genuinely angry? When he’s fighting for personal reasons, not just because he’s the personification of Wrath?
My feet stumble backward instinctively as Beckett steps forward to meet his brother. “You’re going to learn to start talking to me with respect,” he snaps.
I’ve never heard him sound like this before. Is Ford’s wrath affecting him?
Before Ford can say anything more, Beckett lunges forward. His brother moves to counter him, both of them catching each other in midair with a flurry of blows. I shriek in surprise. “Stop! What are you doing?”
The two men battle wildly, and Phoenix takes a neat step out of the way.
“And we’ve got a serious contender here, folks,” he drawls, sounding like a sarcastic version of the announcer from the arena. “Wow, look at these two go! Could Ford finally have met his match after all? Will his sheer idiot brute anger win out against his opponent’s egotistical, maniacal greed? Who knows!”
“You’re not helping, Nix.” Remington rolls his eyes, his tone firm but not angry.
Oh, crap. This is terrifying.
The two men are crashing around the space, slamming each other into the walls, hitting with fists and elbows and knees. They’re attacking with such viciousness that I’m scared they’ll actually kill each other. I yell at them to stop, but I don’t think either of them can even hear me.
This is ridiculous. Insane. They’re both going to get seriously hurt, and for no good reason.
Ford manages to get the upper hand briefly, and he crashes onto Beckett. The two of them roll across the floor, nearly knocking into me. Before I can even blink, Remington grabs me and spins me around, pinning me to the wall and shielding me with his body.
His arms are on either side of my head, his solid frame pressed up against me completely.
All the breath leaves my lungs in a rush.
Chapter Fourteen
Remington
The poor girl is trembling.
Trinity is clutching me, shaking, peering over my shoulder as her wide eyes watch my two brothers duking it out. She’s never seen anything like this before, I’m sure. Poor angel.