Hugh pulled off his shirt, displaying an award-winning torso. He was built like an anatomy model—every muscle honed to precision and just the right size: strong, powerful, but flexible. And bloody. I must’ve cut him over twenty times. Most of the wounds amounted to little more than nicks and shallow gashes. He was really good. Had I been less angry, he might’ve won. That thought worried me. Hugh turned his left arm, showing off three precision cuts across the bulging triceps. Had I managed to cut deeper, I would’ve disabled the arm with each one. “Look at this.” Hugh indicated the cuts to
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