Page 50 of A Bond Beyond Blood (The Butcher’s Daughter Trilogy #1)

V inny

Gannon swung and missed, and I rolled my eyes. “Again,” I instructed. “And hit like you mean it.”

He roared as he charged forward, missing again.

Since he apparently wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon and had made himself quite at home in both my apartment and with my girl, I’d begun sparring with the kid to let off steam a few weeks ago.

I couldn’t pretend that slamming my fists into the little fucker who was trying to steal my girl didn’t feel fucking amazing.

I could allow her to figure out where her heart belonged, but I didn’t enjoy it. How could I? I was completely in love with Jacqueline Fiorino; wanting her for myself was only natural.

But I wasn’t the only one. I knew that. And as much as I hated it, Gannon loved her first. He’d had every first that mattered with that girl—including her first broken heart. I hated that he’d held her heart in his hands and thrown it away, but now he wanted it back. Wanted her back.

And she hadn’t been able to resist his return.

Fine.

I could be patient.

My fist slammed into his cheek and spittle flew from his mouth as his head whipped to the side.

“Hands up,” I growled. “Protect your face.” Smirking, I said, “Or don’t. Fuck if I care.” Maybe if his face wasn’t so goddamned pretty, my girl would lose interest.

Gannon stumbled backwards, then righted himself and brought his hands up, coming toward me once more. We danced around the ring, his eyes swollen but healing quickly, and the blood dripping from his mouth came from a wound that would quickly stitch itself back together.

So I swung again, slamming my fist into the same spot, grinning when a fresh spray of blood spewed from the wound.

“Fuck,” he roared, draping his arm over the ropes. “Time.”

“There are no time outs, kid.” I danced from foot to foot in front of him, taunting him with a wide smile. “Fight me, you little fuck.”

“I can’t,” he said, breathing heavily. “You’re a freaking champion!”

“Was,” I corrected, then I swayed away from him, choosing another tactic. This fight wasn’t just for his benefit; I had some steam to let off and he was the perfect place to direct that.

He just needed a little motivation.

“Did you like listening to me fuck my girl last night?”

Gannon’s head whipped up and his back went rigid.

“You did good, kid, getting her all hot and bothered, ready for me...” I shook my head and gave a low whistle. “Bet you wish you knew how to rip those sounds out of her—”

He charged toward me and my blood sang with adrenaline.

Finally .

Beating up on the humans that came to the gym to go head-to-head with a legend was fun and all, but I hungered for a fair fight.

I missed sparring with Jacqueline something fierce, and though our fights were never fair, she was a damn skilled fighter and really fun to watch, but since her fight with the vampire king, I’d been wary of hurting her, or worse—fucking up her ribs again.

So I limited our sparring to other ways, throwing her around the bedroom instead of the mat.

I dodged Gannon’s first swing, but his second caught me below the ribs, surprising me with his swiftness.

The breath left my lungs in a whoosh and I curled in on myself as I spun away. “Fuck yeah, kid, now we’re talking. You got any more for me?”

Righting myself, I charged forward, slamming my shoulder into his chest and driving him backwards a few feet until he slammed against the ropes, but the kid was lit up now, pissed and ready to throw down.

I taunted him with quips about Jacqueline and he charged me again. His fists slammed into each side, one after the other, little bursts of pain ricocheting throughout my body and feeding into that high of adrenaline.

I pushed off him and swung my right fist in a quick arc, slamming against his left temple.

He shook off the punch, then snarled at me, baring his teeth as he charged again, fists flying like they had a mind of their own.

I caught him easily and hauled him up into the air, then slammed him down onto the mat and straddled him, smashing my fists into his face one after the other until his hand slapped limply against the mat three times.

Panting, I leaned back, admiring my handywork. The kid was a fucking mess. I’d made a bloody pulp out of his face, but he’d survive. He’d even recover fast because I made sure he visited the blood bank or one of the two bars he liked to frequent for food before he met me in the ring each night.

“You’re getting better,” I said.

“Get the fuck off of me,” he growled, though the words were muffled and slurred through the sausage I’d made of his face.

Laughing, I pressed my hands against his chest and used him to push my weight up, drawing an oomph out of the kid, then I hopped down from the ring and strode to the wall. “Take a minute, then come practice your punches. You hit like a drunk toddler.”

“The fuck I do,” he yelled, his words already clearer as his body addressed his injuries in real time. Behind me, his feet hit the ground with a soft thump as he climbed down from the ring. “Show me what I’m doing wrong, man.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing every time I kick your ass?

” Grabbing my phone, I opened up the sound system app and queued up some Giacomo Puccini.

My father’s favorite composer always calmed me after a good fight.

As “Nessun dorma” began to play, filling the gym with the haunting sounds of Turandot’s Act III, I dropped my head back and closed my eyes.

Gannon made a distressed noise in his throat and I spun quickly around.

His eyes were wide, face twisted in horror.

“What?” I asked as I strode toward him. “What’s wrong?”

He visibly trembled and my skin crawled from the fear rolling off of him in waves. I pulled my phone from the pocket of my sweats and stopped the music, scanning the gym for whatever the fuck was wrecking the kid. “What the fuck is going on?”

Breathing heavily, he stared right through me with those wide, haunted brown eyes.

“Gannon.” I grabbed his biceps and shook him.

He blinked as his eyes finally zeroed in on mine. “What was that music?” His voice was soft and unsteady.

Frowning, I searched his gaze, trying to understand how something as beautiful as “Nessun dorma” could provoke such a negative reaction.

“Puccini,” I said, “he was an Italian composer.” My father’s favorite , I finished without saying that part out loud.

I couldn’t fathom what had triggered Gannon’s response to the composition, but I didn’t want that fear linked to anyone in the Ricci family. We had enough notoriety already.

“It’s what he hummed,” Gannon whispered, then he turned quickly and strode toward the back of the gym, where he proceeded to bend in half over a trashcan and lose his lunch.

Rubbing my hand over the back of my neck, I watched, waiting, until he finished puking his guts out and started up the stairs to my apartment.

“Who?” I called out after him. What the hell just happened?

Before he walked through the door, Gannon paused with his hand on the doorknob, his voice just above a whisper as he finally said, “The one who turned me.”