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In that split second, I plunged the knife into the flesh of his thigh.
A guttural scream of pain tore from his lips. His body jerked as he tried to pull away, but I held on tight, feeling the warmth of his blood flowing onto my hand.
I yanked the knife out of his leg, satiated by my fill of violence.
His stupider friend lunged toward me, throwing a series of clumsy punches. Each one easily dodged or blocked. He lacked the finesse that was needed to participate in the major leagues. On his last attempt, I stepped to the side, forcing the man’s fist to connect with the brick wall. The hit echoed along the alleyway, emphasizing the painful grunt falling from his lips.
Two idiots down—for now. One semi-intelligent one still standing. He lingered near the wall, keeping a distance between us. There was a violent tick of his hands, as he debated his next move. The darkness in his eyes gave me no doubt this man had seen some shit. But the question was, had he learned his lesson?
“This can go easy,” I stated, holding up my hand. The knife glistened in the moonlight, blood dripping off of it and staining my palm. Not the warmest versions of persuasion.
The man glanced at Quinton, who coddled the flesh wound of his thigh, still kneeling to the ground. Then, his eyes dragged up to focus on his friend. The two looked so similar. Their hair was cut differently, but the drab brown was the same shade. The jawline cut from the same cloth, and a single impression dimple the size of my thumb on both their chins.
Shit, it dawned on me. The man whose hand I had jammed into the wall was his brother. Familial bonds were tough for an outsider to break, but they crumbled so easily internally.
The man’s hand moved to his hip, tugging with shaking hands at the dark handle of his knife. As the man struggled to draw it, the metal door to the club swung open. Sounds of the club invaded the alleyway for those split seconds, cutting the tension.
I had brothers too. I wanted to yell at the man, who now aimed his gun at me. This fight was no longer two point five men—if you qualified Quinton as even a half a man— against one. My side tripled as Liam and Logan stepped into the alleyway, ready for a fight.
Liam’s distant stare stirred hesitation even in me. Ever since Laila’s death nine months ago, he’d been different. He’d become violent, instinctual, and broken. There was a heaviness to his punches that weren’t there before, a bigger glint of enjoyment when blood coated his skin. But that difference came in handy tonight. Without hesitation, he slammed the beer bottle against the door before throwing it toward our standing assailant.
The bottle shard, almost akin to a blade, stabbed beautifully into the man’s arm. The gun dropped to the ground. In a moment, Logan snatched it from the ground. A wide grin extended on his face, the darkness of the alleyway making it seem all the more menacing.
These were my brothers, bonds forged in the blood of battle instead of the blood of a mother. Those bonds were impossible to break—from the inside and from out.
“Thanks for the invite.” Logan gleamed with excitement, bouncing on his heels like an addict. Weren’t we all though? Each of us was addicted to violence in our own way. I loved dragging it out, feeding off of it. Liam was the Hellhound, known for shredding his enemies in theatrical ways—he enjoyed it for the sense of power and control it gave him. And Logan, he enjoyed the adrenaline of it. Didn’t matter if it was close up or behind the sight of a rifle.
“Anytime,” I muttered, shrugging it off.
Quinton rose from his knees, only for Liam to kick him back down.
“There’s a girl down the way. She couldn’t have gotten far.” I jutted my chin toward the alley behind me. “She may need Carson’s help.”
Logan nodded, heading the way I indicated. Only Liam and I remained now.
“Fuck off,” Quinton grunted.
“You started this,” I accused. “This could’ve gone a lot more civilly.”
Liam only rolled his eyes. “When have you ever been known for your civility?”
“I have my moments,” I stated, adjusting my collar. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw wall-man move towards me.
Without warning, he threw a solid punch towards my face. The pain reverberated from my forearm as I instinctively blocked his attack. I retaliated with a punch, landing only one blow into his stomach. The smell of sweat and adrenaline filled the air as we fought.
Amidst the chaos, I felt my knife being ripped from my hand.
Quinton moved, slashing—the metal shining as it cut into Liam’s ankle. Merely a superficial wound, but a wound nonetheless.
Liam could hold his own, even being shifty on his feet from the liquor. He was a demon raised by the devil himself, Samuel. I’d witnessed Samuel skinning a man alive once, cackling with maniacal glee. Liam, although comfortable with violence, tiptoed a line away from theatrical torture.
Another punch, after another.
I stepped back, the fury and force of them testing my balance. A single kick to the knee knocked me onto my ass as my back slammed into the ground.
Quinton straddled me as we grappled, twisting this way and that. The wet concrete soaked into my back, a mixture of rain, piss, and booze. Occasional painful or determined grunts echoedinto the air, accompanying our labored breathing as we fought for dominance.
I was a thief—my special talent that earned me my place in the crew. I wasn’t a brute, holding my own for only half the time Liam could. The man’s grimy hands wrapped around my throat, constricting the air. I kicked my feet at the ground, trying to buck my hips upward.
