Page 2 of A Deal with a Rake (Wicked Widows’ League #35)
His friend, the man that was like another brother to him.
For years, he was the only brother Tavish knew, the one who traveled with him, while his real family stayed safely in London.
It was Hammer who pulled Tavish from under random women, Hammer who’d stopped him from losing himself over and over again, and The Butcher had brutally murdered him.
Right to the left kidney.
Left to the jaw.
Right to the left eye.
Left to the right eye.
Right to the left kidney.
Left to the nose.
The crunch of bone and the wetness of blood on his hands was proof that he’d struck true.
Right to the temple, and The Butcher was down.
“To your corner, Leprechaun!” the referee ordered, dropping down from the pole to check on The Butcher.
Tavish went and perched himself on Frank’s knee, taking a large gulp of beer from Sam. The cool liquid quenched his thirst and dulled his senses. He couldn’t make another mistake in the next round.
In the center of the ring, The Butcher stood, tottering from left to right as he tried to regain his composure.
“If you don’t knock him the feck out soon, he’s going to hunt you down until you’re dead,” Dutch shouted over the roaring crowd leaning over the rope.
“Dutch is right, da Butcher is mad as a rabid dog.” Frank pointed a thick finger over to where The Butcher sat on his knee man’s knee glaring at Tavish like he’d slept with his woman.
Sam handed Tavish another cup of beer. “He’s even uglier mad.”
“Aye,” Tavish agreed, before gulping the beer.
He welcomed the cool drink, loving the feel of it as it slipped down his chin to his bare chest.
The bellman rang the bell, officially putting an end to the sixty-second break.
“Fucking end it!” Dutch slammed his hand down on the ring.
Nodding, Tavish assumed the fighting position as he met The Butcher at the scratch line.
“You’re a dead man,” The Butcher growled out, death in his cold eyes.
Tavish couldn’t control the smirk that graced his lips.
He’d gotten to him, one of the deadliest bare-knuckle fighters in the country and Tavish had annoyed him.
He wanted to laugh, and he knew wherever Hammer was he’d be laughing right along with him.
He’d always called Tavish an insufferable bastard, and he wasn’t wrong.
“Not today,” was all Tavish said before the bell rang and he pounced.
Right to jaw.
Left to the cheek.
Right to the temple.
Left to the ribs.
Right to the jaw.
Left to the nose.
He pivoted left, then right, avoiding The Butcher’s right hook before he threw out his left, then his right, then left again. The Butcher was covered in blood, barely able to stand on his own two feet. He was too damn slow for Tavish, a disadvantage for the much larger man.
“Tavish! Tavish!” A voice called from the side of the ring, momentarily stealing Tavish’s attention.
He turned to find his brother Declan standing beside Dutch. A blow to his head had him stumbling over his own feet before another connected to his ribs, causing him to lose his breath.
Retreating away from the now-charging Butcher, Tavish took a deep inhale and forced himself to ignore the shocking sight of a brother he hadn’t seen in at least five years.
Right to the nose.
Left to the jaw.
Right to the ribs.
Left to the ribs.
Right to the ribs.
Left to the temple.
Right to the temple.
Down goes The Butcher.
Tavish stood, breathing heavily as blood dripped down his own face.
When the feck did that happen?
“To your corner!” the referee shouted at Tavish.
Retreating to Frank and Sam, he looked down at his brother. They had the same bright red hair as their father, the same blue eyes as their mother, but where Tavish was tall and broad, his brother was tall and thin. His nose was their mother’s, more pert than broad like Tavish’s.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, a pit forming in his belly.
“I’ve been looking for you for months! You have to come with me, now. There’s no time to waste,” Declan said, always straight to business.
“I’m not going any-fecking-where. If you haven’t noticed, I’m in the middle of a fight.” He threw his arms up, ignoring the beer Sam held out for him.
“This needs to wait. He’ll talk to you once he’s done!” Dutch yelled at Declan before he leaned across the rope. “You’ve got him! Just finish it now!”
“You’re still a selfish bastard!” Declan yelled at Tavish. “Da’s dead. He died a year ago while you were off fighting. Your family is on the verge of losing everything unless you come with me right fecking now, Tavish.”
Dead? No, that couldn’t be, he would know if his father was gone from this earth. All the breath left him, and suddenly he felt like a boy again. His eyes watered, a black hole formed in the center of his chest and his thirst for revenge against The Butcher suddenly meant nothing to him.
He needed to get to his mother.
Gone. His father was gone, and the last time they had spoken was in anger.
Tavish stood and walked out of the ring, jumping down to stand beside Dutch. “I’ll come back once I’m done with my family.”
“It doesn’t matter. Family comes first.” Dutch grabbed the back of Tavish’s neck, squeezing. “I’ll always come hunt you down. Now get out of here. I’ll handle the blow out.”
Nodding, Tavish walked away, ignoring the uproar of the crowd and The Butcher’s insistent shouting. “You fucking coward! Get back here! Where do you think you’re going? I’ll find you Leprechaun, and when I do, you’re a fucking dead man!”