Uncaged (An MMA Stepbrother Romance) (71 page)

Chapter Thirty Three

“Fuck you!” I bellow. “Fuck all of you!”

I wince, stare down at my foot. It’s bubbling blood out of a gunshot wound. I move my foot to the side, see the bullet lodged in the ground, the concrete all around it cracked. It went straight through me.

“That’s a handicap,” Fallon says. “Because you fucking walked out of that fight, the only bloody way I could get that Russian cunt to agree to a rematch – double or nothing – is to handicap you. This is your fault, you stupid American cunt.”

“Fuck you,” I growl. “I swear to God, Fallon, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Listen to yourself, you idiot,” Fallon barks, pointing a finger at me. “You still think there’s a way out of this? If that Anton gets you, he’s under instructions to break you. You embarrassed us back there. You know how many people bet big money on you? You embarrassed me back there by walking out. I vouched for you. In my world, there’s this thing called face.”

“Fuck your face.”

“So if you can’t win, you’ll be broken, Pierce, and we will leave you here to die. We’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. There’s no working phones. You will die.”

“Fuck you, you old motherfucker.”

“Well let me tell you something. I’ve got your pretty little thing locked up in the office. If you don’t fight, we…
encourage
you to.” He grins nastily at me. I imagine myself cracking his skull with a rusty pipe.

But I know I’ve got no choice. It fucking kills me that they’ve got Pen, that they’re using her, that it’s my fault she’s in this position.

“You better bandage up my fucking foot, then,” I tell him. “Because I can’t fight if I lose all my blood.”

I look down, and see a puddle of crimson beneath my foot. It hurts like hell, but damn if I’m going to show it.

“Micky,” Fallon says to his goon. “You got some medical training, right?”

“Served in the army as a medic, boss.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Fallon says, clicking his fingers.

Micky leaves and comes back with a first aid bag, and says, “This might hurt a little.”

He lifts my foot. I grit my teeth together, but otherwise don’t show my pain.

“Through-and-through,” he says to himself. “Small fracture of the third metatarsal. Surprisingly, the ligament is still attached, I think. Bullet slipped straight through. Basically a flesh wound.”

“Thanks for the medical,” I growl.