Hurt by Lydia Michaels EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Lydia Michaels
- Language: English
- Genre: Suspense
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
lasgow—Scotland
Callan’s teeth clacked clacked with a horrid smack. Precise pain
exploded behind his eyes as a fire bloomed under his stinging skin. His face
caught the brunt of the assault, flesh splitting and bones throbbing with
familiar distress. Thick blood mixed with sweat as rivulets poured down his
face.
He spit onto the cement floor and waited for his vision to clear as the
beast of a man pounding him like raw mince shuffled back to catch his
breath. The buffeted sound of the crowd returned, their hungry cries
surrounding the makeshift ring from all angles.
Callan’s throbbing ears siphoned the droning noise in and out to the
rapid tempo of his heart. Womp—womp—womp—womp… His skin pulsed
to the beat.
His head snapped back. Another blast to the skull. Blood gushed behind
his nose, choking off his airway, drenching everything in the metallic flavor
of defeat.
Tripping over his feet, he forced his knees to bend, rewarded by several
knocks to the ribs. Voices collided in a drunken slur of bloodthirsty chants.
Launching forward, he dodged a fist and blasted a punch into the tender
solar plexus of his assigned enemy. The blood-drenched tape over his
knuckles did little to protect his hands, each crushing hit pulverizing his
brittle bones and weakening his wrists. At this point, they swung like numb
ham hocks.
Adrenaline thrummed through his veins. He bunched and bounced like a
bobbin on a spool, tethered by a thread to the unknown outcome of the
match, prepared for anything—even death.
Heart hammering like a bodhrán, he maneuvered closer, blinking
through the opaque film of blood and sweat coating his eyes. No time to
wipe it away. Even blinking cost him.
His head snapped back, jaw vibrating, as pain exploded in his ears. The
sharp burst spiked through his brain, blowing open his sinuses, and drilling
to the base of his spine—tripping him on thin air.
He spit again, never taking his eyes off his opponent.
The dank air mixed with the tang of whisky and desperation. Boarded
windows kept the moonlight out and a stale scent of abandonment in.
Everyone in that deserted mill had something to lose. Or everything to
gain. But no one had more riding on this than him.
No guarantees. Win, lose. Live, die. So long as the right people got
paid, no one gave a fuck who got hurt.
A hasty lunge and a miss—bad timing on his part. A solid fist to the ribs
whacked the wind from his lungs. It was the only warning before a storm
rained over him. His opponent pelted him with fists, caving in his chest and
hemming him to the line.
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