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It slammed into him.

And he went flying backward.

He smashed through the upper row of cupboards in the kitchen and toppled to the floor, his body banging against the counter on his way down. Slivers of wood and chunks of plaster rained upon him, dust sprinkling his hair.

Don was there before Darien could stand, one hand grabbing him by the hair, right at the roots, while his other fist collided with his face.Bang. Bang. Bang.Each hit whipped his head to the side as if it were a punching bag.

Far from finished, Don grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him to his feet, flinging him around to face him.

“Let’s go, nephew.” He beckoned. “Give me a real challenge.”

Bloody and battered, Darien stalked forward and swung.

Missed.

Blocked.

Swung again?—

His knuckles barked as they split Don’s brow open. Any other opponent would’ve been rendered unconscious—but this was Donovan, and Darien was shit with his left hand.

Don’s returning hit was lightning-quick—a blow to the side of the temple that caused his ears to ring, the vision in his left eye going white.

The dog and the wolf kept fighting—and it wasn’t Bandit who was winning. The snarling was endless, punctuated with yelps that quickened Darien’s already-rapid pulse.

Don made another move. Darien dodged one hit, but a second quickly followed—another jarring thwack to the same temple, the force behind the blow turning his brain to liquid.

He staggered backward. Nearly fell. He couldn’t see straight, could hardly see at all, and his arm was bleeding again.

“Is that all you got?” Don’s question echoed three times.

Darien took a chance and swung, but he didn’t land the hit.

Don struck him in the gut. The ribs. Something cracked, and he barked a profanity, nearly buckling as pain seared like a blowtorch across his side. He had zero time to recover before knuckles were biting into his upper lip, his nose. His eye.

He teetered, falling to one knee. He tried to push back up, but Donovan kicked him in the face?—

He collapsed, nearly losing consciousness. Head whirling, he tried to sit up.

A knee dug into his chest, pushing him back until he was lying flat on the floor.

“Make them stop,” Darien gritted out, referring to the Familiars.

“Why should I listen to you?” Don hissed, grinding his knee in deep.

Darien tried to push him off, but he had no strength left. “This is between you and me.”

“Would you be saying that if it were Skoll who was losing?”

Don’s fist connected with his cheek—once, twice, each hit whipping his head to the side.

Another skull-rattling punch, and his surroundings went out of focus, his head swimming. All sound, apart from the ringing in his ears, ceased.

And the very last spark of his magic guttered out.

“Best fighter on the west coast.” Don’s sneer was muffled. “You’renothing,Darien. No better than a nobody.”

Darien pushed, but Don wouldn’t yield. “Get off,” he choked out, his mouth full of blood.