Lincoln (Knights Corruption MC - Next Generation, #2) - S. Nelson
“Rip his head off!”
The crowd cheered around me; their enthusiasm at watching two men trying to kill each other was enough to make anyone think twice about fighting in this underground world. No one who signed up for these bouts aspired to someday make it to the pro MMA, myself included. I did it because I was a fuckin’ machine. I’d been trained to fight since I was thirteen years old. I was precise. Lethal if necessary. While I’d never killed anyone in the ring and had no desire to do so, I’d take all measures necessary to win. The prize money was nothin’ to sneeze at either. It was my way of contributing to our MC.
Focused on besting my opponent, I ignored the outrageous demands of the spectators. Instead, I honed all my training, steadied my nerves, and calmed my breathing, which was a feat in itself given how quickly I danced around the cage, my arms and legs working together to attempt to take this fucker out so I could be done with this fight and look for her.
While I learned never to underestimate my rival, I hadn’t expected this guy, whose name I didn’t care to remember, to last this long. He was at least thirty pounds too heavy, his gut hangin’ over the waistband of his shorts. And while his extra weight slowed his movements, he continued to try and best me, even after I broke two of his ribs. If I had the time to care, I’d respect the bastard for his perseverance.
“End this now, Linc,” Jagger yelled behind me. He shouted something else, but I didn’t hear him, too busy dodging the fist headed straight for the side of my head.
Leaning a few inches to the right, his hand flew past me the same time I hit him with a vicious uppercut, knocking him off his feet. Before he even hit the ground, he was out cold.
There was no time for celebration or showboating the win. I jerked my chin toward Jagger and hopped out of the ring, a flash of dark hair catching my attention in the back of the room.
Before I could tell him to follow me, my feet propelled me toward her, disregarding Marek’s warnings and shoving aside not only my safety but the protection of everyone else in the club.
My brain shut down as my body bristled, every step closer warning me of the consequences.
But I didn’t care.
I had to save her.
The metallic aroma of blood infiltrated my nostrils, and while I’d love to say I wasn’t used to the scent, I was. Hell, I was even used to the smell of desperation, but this shit was unbelievable. I stood next to Kaden in a cloud of confusion, staring at the circle of men surrounding Tag, who was strapped to the table and unconscious.
“Stop!” Kaden shouted when Cutter raised his fist to strike the guy again. “What did he do?”
Our president moved away from the table and stalked toward us, his eyes focused solely on his son, his hands clenching into fists the closer he approached. The way he glared at Kaden made both of us take a step back. He looked set to explode, and I didn’t want to be the one to get hit with the aftermath.
When father and son stood toe to toe, Marek growled, “He’s a fuckin’ Reaper.”
His words penetrated my ears, but my brain refused to absorb the words. There was no way Tag was a Reaper, part of that cesspool of a club. From what we’d witnessed during our interactions with them, and from the