Page 74 of I'm sorry, Princess

The bastard isn’t moving. I’m hitting him harder now, willing him to wake up. I need him to move. I need him to fight back because this fight isn’t finished.

Not for me.

I need to bleed out this anger, this… whatever the fuck I felt yesterday. I can’t feel that again. I don’t feel.

The crowd’s noise fades into nothing, the world narrowing to my fists and his bloodied face. Each punch drives me further away from that feeling, that weakness.

I don’t stop. Not until there’s nothing left of him to hit, or nothing left of me to care.

Hands grab at me, trying to stop me. I feel the weight of someone on my back, pulling me away, while two others scramble toward the poor bastard on the floor, trying to keep him breathing.

I haven’t finished. Not even close.

That disgusting, clawing feeling is still there. The one I get when I think about her, that certain blonde. It churns in my gut, and it’s pissing me off. I need this out of my system.

With a growl, I grab the idiot clinging to me and wrench his hands off, throwing him to the floor like a ragdoll. He hits the ground hard, and I give him ten seconds to get up.

Ten seconds to make this interesting.

My vision is hazy, my pulse pounding in my ears. And then I catch it, the faint scent of vanilla. Sweet, cloying, and fucking unbearable. My jaw clenches. I hate vanilla.

Five seconds left? Fuck that. I don’t wait.

I charge at him, slamming my forehead into his, a bone-crunching impact that sends him sprawling. Pain ricochets through my skull, but it’s nothing. Adrenaline eats pain alive.

Where the hell is this stamina coming from? I could go all day. Blood is pumping, my muscles are on fire, and I feel unstoppable. A fucking basic caveman, thirsty for blood, thirsty for pain.

“Hit me,” I growl, my voice low and rough, daring him.

The idiot stares at me, wide-eyed and frozen, his fear radiating like a goddamn beacon. He’s 6’0” at best, and I tower over him at 6’4”. His shoulders are shaking. He looks like he’s about to cry.

Pathetic.

Where the fuck can I find someone my size? Andres doesn’t fight anymore, not like this. Not like me.

I tilt my head to one side, then the other, the crack of my neck breaking the silence like a threat.

Then I lunge, delivering another brutal blow that leaves him crumpled at my feet.

This is what I need.

The sting of impact, the sound of flesh and bone breaking, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane.

I’m down now, pinned by three men holding me in place. Blood coats my skin, dripping down my face and hands. Good. Let them see what I’m capable of.

Someone grabs my face.

“Keep touching my face, and it’ll be the last thing you do,” I growl, my vision blurred, my voice low and deadly.

The hand doesn’t move. As my vision sharpens, I see a face, gray beard, lined with age, and eyes that aren’t afraid of me. Late 40s, maybe. Concerned.

I focus harder. It’s Kirill. Of course, it’s Kirill, crouching in front of me, inspecting my face like I’m some wounded dog. His men hold me down, their grips firm, but they should know better.

“Get off me,” I snap, the frustration bubbling under my skin, ready to boil over. Anger builds slowly, creeping through me like a familiar friend.

And then I hear it.

Crying.