Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,57

that he just willingly lost his weapon.

I pick it up and flip it in the air, like one does with a baseball bat. “Ye need to learn how to throw an axe before ye threaten a man with it.” I’ve tossed a thousand axes and can do it with one hand. Without warning, without batting a damn eyelash, I toss it through the air so fast that when it lands between his skull, the sick thud quiets the crowd as the man falls to his knees.

I squat and tilt my head, his eyes wide as he stares at me, realizing that the last few seconds of his life is upon him. A small trail of blood escapes his wound, dribbling down his nose, lips, then falls free from his chin. Poor bastard. I don’t even know his name.

And I don’t even care.

“Maybe ye’ll practice in heaven, boyo. Ah, ye probably going to hell.” I stand, towering over the man’s weak attempt to speak. He can’t with an axe in his head. I wrap my hand around the handle, placing my boot against his shoulder, and kick him free.

I toss the hatchet aside and watch the life leave his eyes and the blood pool around his head.

They take his body next.

And I’m only left hungrier.

You can’t tempt a man who longs for blood and not expect him to become addicted to it once he has it.

I search the crowd for Cohen, but every face I see blurs to one. I shouldn’t have to prove myself. I’m Conor’s brother, for fuck’s sake. That should be enough for him to come out of his fucking shadow and fight me like a man.

“That’s enough for the night,” Reaper says on the other side of the cage.

I stomp toward him and grip the fence, curling my fingers through the metal until the brass knuckles clink against the cage. “I say when it’s enough. Bring on the next one!” I roar, and the crowd goes nuts. Maximo claps his hands together and licks his lips. He can taste the money he’s making.

“Get the fuck out of there,” Reaper commands.

“I’m the god in this cage; not ye, Prez,” I dare say, but I can’t stop myself. I’m too fucking high on endorphins to care.

I pace the cage like a wild animal, snarling and watching the elevator open for my next opponent. Reaper talks to Maximo, and I’m not sure what is being said, but Maximo hurries over to the microphone and grabs it from the air.

“The night is over. Leave at once. No questions.” Maximo’s statement has the crowd dispersing quickly, like sheep listening to their handler.

All too soon the crowd is gone, and the buzzing in my mind gets louder. I’m surrounded by my brothers, and Dawn stares at me with absolute terror in her big green eyes that make my knees weak. I shake my head to clear the haze, the need to keep fighting, but as Reaper climbs the fence, takes a knife from Tongue, and jumps down in front of me, what I’ve done hits me like a ton of bricks.

“You want to fight, Skirt? Fight me,” Reaper says, circling me like a shark. He digs the knife into the cut on my back, and a shout of pain rips from my lips. “I said fight me!” He shoves. “You want to prove you’re a god? Fight your President.”

“I’m sorry, Reaper. I don’t know what got into me. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

Heat radiates off him, his anger, and he whispers so only I can hear, “You do not disrespect me like that. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye,” I say, knowing what’s coming.

No matter what state of mind I’m in, I will never fight Reaper. He’s the one man I will not go up against because I know he’ll kill me.

“We have company,” Maximo says as a few men crawl in under the large garage door.

“Table this shit for later. I’m nowhere near done with you.” Reaper slashes the blade across my back, and my knees give out. That knife hurts more than the damn sword that etched my skin earlier.

The men are in leather cuts too. They aren’t armed, but that doesn’t mean anything. The guy up front has a patch on his cut that says VP, so Tool pushes off the side and charges at the stranger to take him out, screwdriver in hand.

“Stand down,” Reaper orders, and Tool doesn’t take another step.

“We aren’t here for trouble. We heard about the fight