Page 39 of Misted

Mist

I can feel you when I thought feelings were impossible.

The familiar rushof adrenaline shoots through my veins and tightens my muscles.

I want to say it’s because I’ve been slowly, but surely relapsing to a stronger dose of Omega since Ghost left, but that’s not it.

The crowd roars with bloodthirsty energy as Shadow and Hawk pound their fists into each other.

Scar, Flame and I stay at the podium in President Joe’s underground fighting ring beside the owner himself.

The stench of alcohol and cigarette permeates the air as President Joe places bet after a bet on his grandson, Shadow. To think that freak has a family was the surprise of the century, but thanks to his familial connection with one of the biggest underground lords, President Joe himself, he turned into our friend instead of our foe.

“Shadow, Shadow, Shadow…” The crowd chants with rhythmic energy as he takes momentum.

Scar jumps up and down in her huge tulle yellow skirt, screaming Hawk’s name at the top of her lungs. “Kick his arse! Bring that little shit down, Hawky!”

Flame sits with eyes half-closed and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

I’m sitting, too, but not due to indifference like Flame. If I stand up, my feet won’t carry me. From the outside looking in, I appear as blank-faced as Flame. I sit with one knee crossed over the other, wearing my black, Haute Couture Chanel dress with my hands flat on the chair’s armrests.

On the inside, sick fear grips me by the soul.

Both Shadow and Hawk are in shorts. Their chests glisten with sweat and perspiration. Even from this distance, I can smell the excess of adrenaline mixed with the monstrous remains of Omega.

And Hawk, damn him straight to hell. He’s six feet plus height of taut muscles and pure freaking testosterone. Despite my state, I clench my thighs at the sight of him in his full glory. My attempts to subdue the throbbing ache at my core fail miserably. He’s lost weight during his captivity, but the hard-looking six-pack remains the same. A few newer and some older slash marks run across his back.

I bite my lower lip as memories of that day flashback in my mind. When I lost him forever.

A 3D style hawk is inked along Hawk’s bulging bicep, and his long wings fall on either side of his upper chest and back. The over-realistic drawing — Ink’s trademark — make it appear as if the hawk will fly him away any moment.

And it did countless times.

I haven’t been around him for this long in forever, and while a part of me wants him gone to not aggravate the disaster brewing at the backmatter of my life, another part craves his nearness. Because of that stupid, foolish part, I wake up every day with dread perching over my chest, afraid that he left in the middle of the night.

Like a bittersweet dream.

An unreachable illusion.

Every time Shadow lands a blow on Hawk, I grip the armrest so hard, I draw blood from my palms.

The little bastard Shadow has always been an underground fighter. The ring is his kingdom and the screaming crowd are his subjects. It’s not a coincidence that everyone shouts his name.

Hawk was never one for close-range fights. He’s a sniper. His hands are his gold mines and he protects them with his life. He doesn’t do hand-to-hand combat unless he absolutely has to. Why the fuck did he agree to this public display of fighting? Only bandages wrap around their knuckles as they slam into each other.

I’ll murder Shadow and feast on his blood if he as much as injures Hawk. He knows better than to mess with a sniper’s hands. They’re even more important than a painter or a pianist’s hands. At least, those only lose their passion when injured. A sniper might lose his whole damn life.

After Hawk’s modest win in the first round — by points, the second round ends in Shadow’s favour. The crowd goes rampant as well as the announcer. Blood trickles down Shadow’s nose and his full sleeves tiger tattoos appear more ominous under the sheen of sweat and blood droplets.

Zoe lunges to him and helps in wiping his nose with a wet cloth. She doesn’t like these scenes and neither do I, but I assume we’re here for the same reason.

Watching those men.

Her growing belly strains against her denim overalls as she scowls at Shadow. He simply grins, showing bloodied teeth and captures her lips in a hungry kiss. She kisses him back, her fingers threading in his half-damp hair.

Zoe understands Shadow’s need for the adrenaline boost. Shadow is a living, breathing monster who only lives on excitement and thrill, but Hawk? He never ran after adrenaline.

He stands at the other end of the ring, rewrapping his knuckles, eyebrows drawn together. He lifts his head up and his razor-sharp eyes capture mine.