Skirt (Ruthless Kings MC #5) - K.L. Savage Page 0,88
say to a little boy who can’t be more than five-years-old.
“Are you the knight?” a girl asks, gigantic brown eyes and hair of the color of garnet.
“What? No, little lassie. I’m here for someone I love, though. Have ye seen her? Her and a wee boy?”
She nods, then points to the back doors where a few Hounds are fighting with Demons and Ruthless Kings.
“She told me a story. About a princess being saved by a knight. Are you the knight?” She stares at me like I’m some savior, some Prince Charming in a fairy tale. “They were right next to me, but the mean man, the bad guy, he come and tooked them away.” Her eyes well and her bottom lips puckers out.
Those damn lagoons get me every time.
“I’m going to get ye out of there, okay? I am. I need to know where Dawn is. I need to save her like the knight in the story saved the princess, okay? I’ll be back for ye.”
“You swear?” she asks.
“On me life, little lassie.” I grip the fence one last time, making myself turn away from the terrified girl, and get ready for the fight I’ve been waiting for far too long. I give my knuckles a good crack and swing my arm through the air, knocking the guy out in one swift hit, then I take his head and smash it against the other one, leaving them unconscious.
I kick open the door and see Cohen getting on a small jon boat. I see Dawn’s strawberry blonde hair and two little boys next to her. I don’t know who is who, but it doesn’t matter. Those kids, that woman, they are my responsibility.
“Don’t even think about getting on that boat, O’Roarke. Yer time is up.”
He pauses as he unhooks the rope from the dock, then stands straight. “Damn, if it ain’t the second Blackwood brother. You want to die too, right?”
“I’m not the one dying today.”
The door kicks open, and Tongue throws a body on the dock, a Hound. Reaper comes through next and drags two out, then Whistler, even with a gunshot wound, drags a body out. Every member, Ruthless and Demon alike, throws bodies on the ground.
The only one left is Cohen.
And he is mine.
Tongue lifts his knife, but I grab onto the blade before he can throw it, letting the edge cut into my palm. “He’s mine, Tongue.”
“Ya need to hurry; Feds will be here in thirty,” Seer says, tossing one of the dead Hounds in the water. A gator's jaws wrap around the head and death rolls to make sure his food is dead before taking it to the bottom of the swap.
I want to finish this how it started—fighting.
“No guns, no weapons.” I take off my brass knuckles and pop my finger. “Just ye and me.”
“I’m a better fighter than you,” he taunts. “I’m a champion.”
Cohen isn’t wrong. I know he’s the better fighter, but where he has training, I have skill and natural ability. We circle each other while the guys throw the bodies in the water to get rid of evidence. I’m never the one to make the first move. I like to see what my opponent is going to do and read his body language.
He dips left and swings his right fist, a hard jab, which if it hit me, would have taken me down, but I’m quick. I duck and hook my left fist and punch his stomach, then lift my knee right between his legs. He groans, but he doesn’t let the pain of getting kneed in the balls stop him. He tackles me to the ground, my head hitting with an unforgivable thud.
I’m on my back.
It’s never good to be on my back. It gives my opponent an advantage. I can’t afford Cohen to have the advantage; too much is at stake. I manage to push my knee between us and roll us. Grabbing his head, I slam it against the dock. I reach for my brass knuckles, slip them on, and wail him in the face.
“You said no weapons!”
“And ye killed my brother after the round ended. I’m fighting too fair with ye.” I punch him again, splintering his front tooth. “I’m fighting to kill ye.” The sound of his skull crunching under my fists is liberating. I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Left. Right. Left. Right. My arms burn. My knuckles sting. I hate him so much.
“Skirt!” Reaper grabs my hand before I can punch the man under me