He looked older, eviler. His body wiry but soft around the middle. Dressed in low-slung jeans and no shirt, he exposed his Dagger Rose tattoo, which crept around his rib cage, merging with other ink on his chest and arms.
Time hadn’t been kind to him—already making him bent and arthritic. His ink was an ugly faded green, while wrinkles lined his face.
He didn’t look like a worthy opponent, but I’d been on the receiving end enough to not buy the feeble image. He was fucking vicious. He deserved to die.
We circled each other, staying out of punching distance. The knife he’d stabbed me with remained in his fist, dripping with tiny droplets of blood. My blood.
He smirked, unable to hide behind the mask he’d worn all his life. The truth shone: an evil bastard who truly didn’t care about others.
I was doing the world a favor by putting him down.
“What’s to say she didn’t enjoy it? Bit like your piece on the side, eh?” Rubix laughed again. “Buttercup enjoyed her time with us. Didn’t she tell you?”
My heart cracked open.
He’d die a thousand fucking deaths for touching Cleo.
My wound was a strange mix between hot and sticky, cold and damp. I didn’t want the distraction, but at least the injury couldn’t compete with the agony inside my head. My tolerance of pain had increased the past few days—no thanks to him.
I snarled, “She told me everything. It’s only added to my conclusion.”
Fury bubbled in my gut. I wanted to let loose and attack. But I couldn’t afford to let anger get in the way. Emotions caused mistakes. This had to be coldhearted and calculated.
I would kill him. And I refused to die trying.
“Oh, and what’s that?”
We continued circling, just waiting for the other to slip.
“That I’ll kill you and never think of you again.”
Rubix glowered. He suddenly threw the knife, lodging it into the mattress where his whore had been. “You never stopped believing in fairy tales, did you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You want to kill me? Fine. Let’s see you fucking try.” He raised his fists. “No knives, no guns. We do this the old-fashioned way.”
I cricked my neck, corralling my muscles to attack. “Fine by me.”
A pause.
A single pause.
Then, war.
I didn’t know who charged first. But in perfect sync, we stopped circling and met in the middle.
Everything inside me let loose. I’d dreamed of this moment—I’d begged for this chance. And now it was here.
I roared, clouting his chest.
He kicked and darted away, granting enough space for a brutal uppercut.
Stars burst in my eyes; blood coated my tongue.
“See, Arthur—you’re still a *.” Rubix darted away, fists raised. “Cleo will be such a lucky bitch to have me over you.”
Red-hot rage combusted my veins like volcanoes. “You’ll never touch her!”
We fell together again. Attacking, blocking.
The fight felt rehearsed. As if we followed some ordained path and choreography.
His fists connected. Mine connected.
His parries landed. So did mine.
We hurt each other but neither of us gained ground.
A purgatory of fighting where we both suffered to make the other bleed.
“Had enough?” Rubix panted, blood pouring from his nose.
I smiled, bordering feral insanity. All I wanted was his life to snuff out. I wanted him gone.
“I won’t have enough until you’ve paid for what you’ve done!” I launched myself into him, fists flying—all uniformity scrambled in favor of granting as much agony as possible.
Each punch was cathartic. Each knuckle to his jaw healing.
Time lost all meaning as we chipped away at each other. For me, I only grew stronger with every strike—becoming weightless thanks to redemption granted piece by piece.
But for him, he faltered. Swing after swing, he lost his confidence, turning messy.
Breathing hard, he growled, “You’re a waste of space, Arthur. Just give up already. Stop making a fucking fool of yourself.”
I grinned, swallowing back metal and gore. “You’re losing, Father.” Every fumble and missed strike fed me like a beast. Rubix might’ve tried to turn me into him—but somehow, I’d become better. Stronger. Quicker.
Almost every night of my teenage years, he’d taught Asus and me how to throw a punch. He’d forced us to fight—cultivating hatred between brothers.
I’d loathed those nights, but I’d never forgotten the lessons. Never forgotten the way my father operated or favored his left fist over his right.
Energy poured into my tiring body. I used my trump card. “He’s dead, you know.”
Rubix’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What the fuck are you—”
“Dax. He’s dead. I slaughtered the son of a bitch.”
For a moment, grief clouded my father’s face; then putrid anger replaced it. “You mother—”
I sidestepped his attack and let every lesson and memory guide my fists. He no longer scared me, controlled me, owned me.
Not this time.
My hand barreled into his face.
This is for Cleo.
My knuckles connected with his cheekbone.
This is for Thorn.
My boot thundered against his kneecap.
This is for fucking throwing me away like I was nothing.