CHAPTER THREE | BAD BLOOD
SUNDAY
WHEN VOLKOV'S FIST connected with his opponent's jaw, the audience roared in ruthless delight. Everyone in the club eagerly feasted their eyes on the ring as Kolson Simmons respectfully got the shit beat out of him. The world spun around me.
The Vanquisher was going to kill him before I ever got the chance.
Kolson was a far cry from the undernourished, jittery and unashamedly graceless boy that ruined me all those years ago. As the two men lethally circled each other, I realised just that; Kolson was now unapologetically a man.
He stood tall, well built and regal with high cheekbones and a brooding scowl, sharp enough to cut through even the hardest of hearts. His midnight hair was longer than when we were children, lightly curling at the tips of his ears and raggedly cut to the top of his neck. Inky tattoos danced all over his lean body and broad shoulders, dipping down to his v-shaped lower abdomen, catching the heated gazes of all the nearby women. But deep behind the inexpressive mask, I recognized the unchanged touch of smugness; he was the same devastating villain he had always been.
Even the air rearranged itself to make space for his cruel presence. He was everything I had armoured myself against.
Volkov lunged forward and my knuckles paled, clutching at the edge of the booth. Kolson evaded the punch, ducking and turning towards the other fighter in a defensive stance. He was surprisingly lighter on his feet than Volkov.
"Who the hell let that cocksucker back into town?" Toby grunted, nursing another glass of something strong.
"I'm not worried," Temper snarled. "I have full faith in him."
Ridley exhaled an annoyed breath. "In Simmons?!"
"In his ability to fuck things up and have to haul ass." Temper muttered bitterly.
Hollers, hoots and roars thundered in the air like a dense smog as the two men stormed each other.
"Am I missing something? Who is this guy?" Ridge asked, but no one answered.
The Simmons family was a tragic tale that Graycott drained from its memory a long time ago. As far as everyone knew, Kolson was a fallen angel back from the dead.
Though I hated it, I couldn't shift my attention away from the ring.
Away from him.
I was too stunned to say anything, still battling with the mere affirmation that he was alive. He hadn't just been a figment of my imagination. He was here.
The boy that left Graycott five years ago had been swallowed up by something angrier, more powerful and breathtakingly vile. Everything blurred as I slowly took him in, transfixed.
I heard the disturbing sound of a fist cracking against bone as Volkov swung his arm, landing a solid jab underneath Kolson's jaw. The crowd winced, enraptured, as Kolson staggered back from the blow. When Volkov advanced toward him a second time, Kolson dodged the attack. He turned just in time to pummel his elbow straight into Volkov's waist and then once more into the side of his face for good measure. Kolson waited, gingerly bouncing on his heels but the power behind the strike made Volkov stumble backward.
The audience erupted into hysterics with the knowledge that Volkov might have finally met his match.
My heart howled inside my chest, inwardly flinching at every punch, swing and growl.
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